


The Mystery of Love

by oh_mr_adams



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone, 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, Violence, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: Love wasn't a mystery to John Adams, he understood it quite well.Yet he couldn't manage to comprehend the odd feelings he received in Thomas's presence, the quickening of his heart, the invasive thoughts that tormented his brain.Perhaps it wasn't meant to be understood.





	1. Chapter One

     To say that everything had begun on the stairs would be an understatement. If everything had begun on the stairs, John probably wouldn’t have proposed Thomas as Richard’s replacement in the committee, and they most likely would have been all the worse off for it. Thomas would have gone home to his wife and John would have been left to write that blasted declaration for himself. Perhaps his life would have remained much less complicated if he hadn’t. Perhaps he could have just continued on with his life without having to spend his time and energy on dealing with thoughts of Thomas Jefferson.

 

     But things hadn’t begun on the stairs. John had been watching Thomas for long before that, interested in the man’s abilities, to say the least. His writing abilities, of course, as well as his ability to barely speak yet to say things in a single sentence John couldn’t get across in twenty. John hated to admit it, but he was jealous, as well as intrigued. Perhaps he was more intrigued than he should have been, for he often found himself staring at Thomas as Thomas stared out the window, lazily half-lidded eyes gazing at something John couldn’t see from his seat in the corner of the room. John wondered how Thomas could manage to stare at something for so long, then silently reprimanded himself upon realizing he was doing the same exact thing. John often found himself at the end of a long, largely unsuccessful day wanting to talk to Thomas, only to discover with great disappointment that Thomas rarely wanted to speak to him. Of course, he consoled himself, Thomas rarely wanted to speak to anyone. The thought didn’t quite manage to ease his disappointment. He’d go out to drink most evenings with Roger or Charles or hell, occasionally even Richard, yet all night his thoughts would be on Thomas. Thomas’s eyes that never met his, and Thomas’s hair that always shone in the warm sunlight from far across the room.  
  
     Things hadn’t begun on the stairs, but they were certainly escalated there, and John could sense the tension emanating from Thomas, as one by one each member of the committee was disqualified for the position of writing the declaration. He’d wanted Jefferson from the start of course, and he wouldn’t have accepted anyone else even if they had agreed (he knew that they wouldn’t), but he’d gone through the process of asking each member as to not seem too dead set on Thomas’s abilities, to not seem too keen on strong arming Jefferson into writing it. All in all, he supposed, it didn’t really matter who wrote it to anyone but him. The Declaration didn’t exactly have any importance in and of itself; the whole process was just another way to bide their time, time John so desperately needed to work his plan into order. Still, after reading everything Jefferson had written prior to that day, utterly immersing himself in Thomas’s skill and aptitude for language, John couldn’t help himself but to want more of it. 

 

     And so he’d get more of it, by any means necessary. Even if Thomas would whine and complain and resent him for keeping him from his lovely wife, so be it. John desperately needed more of Thomas’s work to the point that for the past few nights he’d been unable to sleep for want of it. And while Jefferson was writing their declaration, John would solve the whole issue of the vote. He had the whole thing planned precisely, yet when Thomas leaned over him, his breath faintly tickling John’s neck, John very nearly lost his composure. He almost melted under Thomas’s intimidating gaze, matched only by his utterly oppressive height. Thomas’s breath smelled faintly of coffee and John felt an inexplicable stirring in his chest that couldn’t even match what he felt when he read Thomas’s work to himself at night. The sensation made something jump deep within him and he felt himself suddenly embraced with a carnal desire for the man. He forced himself to clear his head, to swallow and match Thomas’s fierce eyes. John was going to get more of that work out of the man, he knew it, Thomas knew it, he’d stated it explicitly over and over for the entire committee to hear. Yet, when Thomas stood in front of him, all six-feet-five of the Virginian, and asked him that question in such an intimidating and subtly forceful tone, John felt his breath catch in his chest.  
  
      _“How?”_

     In that moment John could think of a million ways, forceful or not, to persuade the man.

 _  
_      “By physical force if necessary.” It was a miracle his voice didn’t break. The quill pen in his hand tapped against the front of Thomas’s waistcoat, the barbs of its feather catching on one of the brass buttons. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at Thomas’s eyes, and he told himself it was because he’d have to crane his neck uncomfortably. Just the simple fact that he was eye level with Thomas’s chest made that same frustrating feeling stir inside of him. Fortunately for him, Thomas, who was seemingly at the end of his rope, leaned over heavily on the banister, forcing John to make eye contact with him as their noses were mere inches apart. John’s eyes widened and in his peripheral, he could see his chest rising and falling with nervous, labored breaths, but his eyes were locked with Thomas’s who looked at him with uncharacteristic ferocity. John only found himself more intrigued with the man. Thomas was saying something- John didn’t quite register what. He was too invested in the way Thomas’s eyes sparkled, the faintly hidden humor masked by all the frustration he was so busy expressing. John was used to people being angry with him, he didn’t mind. He’d make Thomas hate him if he could simply get what he wanted from him. 

 

     Yet the resignation he was so used to feeling at others’ hatred of him didn’t come; in fact, the thought of Thomas hating him, of Thomas being less aware of his existence than he already was left a pit of nervousness in John’s chest. He didn’t care for people and people didn’t care for him, that much was a fact that John knew quite well. He was, quite literally, the most hated man in Philadelphia, he had very few friends and people tended to avoid him like he had the plague. He didn’t quite mind though, he was here to work and so long as he managed to do what he’d set out to do, he didn’t care what the general populace thought of him. But Thomas was not the general populace. Perhaps it was his affinity for the man’s writing or the fact that all of his attention would be locked on Thomas during the rare occasions the man opened his mouth or some other damned thing, but John couldn’t bring himself to disregard Thomas’s feelings the way he could so easily for everyone else. The thought frustrated him entirely, yet his eyes were fixed on the way Thomas’s jaw twitched slightly when he was angry, and the slight dimple on his cheek.  
  
      _“Oh Mr. Adams, you are driving me to homicide!”_

 

     It was entirely melodramatic, to the point that John could barely hold back a smile at Thomas’s beleaguered flailing. Still, he made sure to keep his customary scowl as he raced after Thomas, gripping the Virginian’s bicep tightly. Thomas looked at him with a blank yet startled look at the sudden contact and John felt the sudden urge to pull his hand away. He collected himself though and thrust the quill into Thomas’s hands with a force spawned from frustration and confusion at the feelings brewing inside of him. He looked, possibly by mistake, up at Thomas, only to see the man’s cheeks decorated with a surprised flush that nearly camouflaged the faint scattering of freckles. John felt himself suddenly frozen on the spot, wracked with a nervous panic that he managed to hide quite well as he stood, his eyes locked with Thomas’s for longer than they should have been.  
  
     “The decision is yours, Mr. Jefferson!” He yanked his hand from Thomas’s bicep and Thomas looked at him with what could only have been offense at his sudden retreat. “Do as you _like with it!_ ” John could have sworn he felt his voice go up an octave, but he had no time to witness Thomas’s reaction as he turned heel and marched off, his face warm with a confused indignation.   
  
     It wasn’t until John had left the statehouse, standing in the blistering Philadelphia heat, his jaw clenched to the point that it hurt, that he realized he’d been holding his breath since he’d forced the quill into Thomas’s hand. He let out a tired sigh, his knuckles white as he gripped his cane. He suddenly felt quite embarrassingly alone and without purpose, and he couldn’t exactly return to the statehouse after making such a dramatic exit. Instead, he straightened his coat and marched off down the street, deciding he might as well return to his apartment for the time being. Part of him would have preferred the embarrassment of awkwardly returning to the statehouse to the treatment the locals gave him as he walked by. They’d whisper, giving him dirty side glances as he passed, some wouldn’t even look at him at all, like if they acknowledged him they might catch the disease of independency. He bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t care, he told himself time and again, he didn’t care what people thought of him so long as he got his job done. The treatment though, he realized, would be wearing on anyone’s nerves after this long.  
  
     He let out a sigh of relief upon returning to his apartment, relief from either the Philadelphia locals or from the odd inability to stop thinking of Jefferson’s eyes, he wasn’t sure. The orange hues creeping in through his windows alerted him to the fact it was getting late, as if the exhaustion in every muscle of his body wasn’t telling him already. With a sigh he shrugged off his coat, hanging it neatly in the closet with the others, and collapsed onto his bed haphazardly. He had almost closed his eyes when he heard the familiar crinkle of parchment from beneath him, and rolled over to see what he’d landed on. He slowly tugged the parchment out from beneath him and squinted at it in the dim light. _A Summary View of the Rights of British America._ His face instantly went hot when he realized he must have fallen asleep reading it for the hundredth time the night prior. He sat up and rubbed his eyes as he contemplated simply tossing the document aside and going to sleep. Yet a frustrating feeling in his chest stopped him and he bit down on the inside of his cheek, knowing why he couldn’t simply do that. He forced himself out of bed and placed the document neatly with the others; _A Declaration on the Cause and Necessity of Taking Up Arms,_ and _the Draft of a Constitution for Virginia;_ he was, quite embarrassingly, beginning to amass a collection.  
  
     Gazing over his ever increasing pile of documents, he bit down on his lower lip, unsure of what to make of the way he felt. The way he felt when reading Thomas’s work was odd, to say the least, and the way he felt when he looked at Thomas was even odder. John didn’t even want to think about the way he felt when Thomas leaned over him, his breath hot on his neck, their faces mere inches apart. John blinked when he realized his heart was hammering in his chest at the thought and, struck with sudden, raging frustration, he kicked the nearest chair.   
  
     That rash action proved to be a mistake, as it sent a wave of sudden pain shooting through his foot. His anger was only exacerbated, and with a frustrated cry of pain he collapsed back into bed, pulling a pillow over his face as he let out a muffled scream into it. His foot hurt as much as his head and he supposed that perhaps his heart hurt just the same. Why did everything have to be so _difficult?_ Why couldn’t he just ignore Thomas, focus on the vote and drag the country into all out war as he’d meant to? He’d come here to work, to fix the country, and yet here he was being dragged into emotions he hadn’t bargained for. Another muffled scream into his pillow, this time more from defeat than anger. His anger moved to a gripping nervousness though, for every time he closed his eyes he was back on those stairs and Thomas was leaning into him, his blue eyes staring him down defiantly and his lips just barely close enough to kiss. John’s eyes shot open at that last thought. He would not- he could not be thinking about kissing Thomas Jefferson.   
  
     John rolled over on his side with a tense huff, hugging his pillow tightly to his chest, his eyes wide in a nervous panic. Kissing Thomas Jefferson. Thomas Jefferson kissing him. The thought brought a shaky smirk to his face. What an idiotic idea, he told himself. Inane. Utterly stupid. That’s all he was being, utterly stupid. He was acting stupid from lack of sleep, from stress, from not eating enough and drinking more than he should. He was simply acting like an idiot and once he started taking better care of himself these thoughts of kissing Thomas Jefferson would disappear.   
  
     Yet he doubted they would. He hoped they wouldn’t. As much as it confused him, the mystery of why he saw Thomas’s eyes when he closed his own, the mystery of why he caught himself desperate for a passing glance from the Virginian, as much as it confused him, it always brought a smile to his face. It always brought an odd stirring in his heart and an exhilarating nauseousness in his stomach. He hated not understanding things so much, yet the mystery of it all thrilled him. The way he constantly glanced across the room, desperate for some kind of attention from the man. The way he could see his eyes in the flowers that dotted the grass every golden afternoon. All the feelings Thomas instilled in him made his heart pound in his chest and he gave another quiet groan into his pillow, his voice weak with exhaustion and emotional defeat. He closed his eyes once again, though he knew that it was unlikely he’d manage to find sleep for yet another night. Another night filled with nothing but the sight of Thomas’s eyes burned permanently into his brain. 


	2. Chapter Two

     John found himself wandering alone down the streets of Philadelphia yet again. It was night, so the sun wasn’t as intolerable as it usually was, but the humidity still lingered like a long, unvanquishable enemy that managed to best him at every turn. He prided himself on being self-sufficient, on not requiring someone to talk to after a long day of accomplishing nothing at all, but being turned down on his offer for drinks by everyone he asked had left him with quite the wounded ego. Charles had… preoccupations with Mr. Hancock of course, and Roger had said he was going to show that absurdly tall New Jersey delegate around the city. Richard had headed back to Virginia and Franklin… John shuddered as he thought about whatever the hell Franklin would be doing at this time of night. He was alone once again and he’d resolved himself to drink his disappointments away, as he was becoming increasingly accustomed to doing. 

  
     As he shoved open the door to the tavern he was greeted with the familiar thick scent of rum and tobacco smoke, as well as a frustrating amount of noise. His need for peace and quiet, however, was outmatched by his need for a drink, and he shoved his way through the crowd.  Being at the elbow height of taller men was proving to be quite dangerous, and by the time he’d reached the bar, he’d narrowly avoided getting hit too many times to count. He let out a sigh of relief when he broke out of the crowd and found himself a vacant stool at the bar, only to have a familiar copper color catch his eye in a way that, for a brief moment, made him forget to breathe. 

 

     Jefferson sat, hunched over his drink, his too-long limbs making him look incredibly awkward, as they often tended to do. He stared glumly into his mug with a blank expression, blinking every few moments but not expressing any attention being paid to the outside world. John slowly mounted the high stool, not taking his eyes away from the Virginian beside him, who seemingly didn’t notice his arrival. John sat beside him, staring, for a long while, wondering when Thomas might notice him, or move, or do just about anything. Jefferson continued to just stare down into his drink as John watched him, his eyes nervously wide. John bit the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to do regarding the Virginian’s unresponsive state.  
  
     “If you’re here then I take it the declaration is finished?” John asked tentatively, his unusually piercing voice shocking Thomas from his numbed state. Thomas blinked heavily, then his eyes slowly fixed upon John for a long while, staring him down. John returned the stare, and he wasn’t quite sure why, but the whole affair left a nervous jittering in his stomach. Thomas simply looked at him, occasionally blinking, as he took a sip from his mug, refusing to break eye contact. He opened his mouth to speak, and John felt his breath catch in his lungs. The roar of the tavern was muted to him.  
  
     “No.”   
  
     That was all. Thomas returned to staring at his drink. John fixed him with an annoyed look before he tugged on the sleeve of the bartender, indicating he wanted a drink. Luckily, while everyone in Philadelphia hated him, they didn’t hate him enough to refuse him alcohol. The bartender slammed the mug down on the bar in front of him and John took it gratefully. He was grateful, yes, but still quite frustrated, and he fixed Thomas with an annoyed look. “If it isn’t finished,” he said quietly, but with a tangible edge to his voice, “Then why are you here?” Thomas’s blank expression settled into one of annoyance. He took another sip of his drink, staring John down while he did the same.   
  
     “Have you managed to win over Pennsylvania?” He asked, frustration lacing his tone. John opened his mouth to speak, then grimaced, taking a swig from his mug.   
  
     “No,” he said bitterly.  
  
     “Then why are you here?”  
  
     John fixed him with a dry look but didn’t respond, instead, he simply kept drinking, his failures weighing heavily on his consciousness. Usually, he would have found himself too overwhelmed by Jefferson’s presence, his intimidating height and bright eyes, but Jefferson was too drawn in on himself to really make much of an impact on anyone. John bit the inside of his cheek as he drank, trying to figure out what the hell the problem could be. He instinctively moved to place a hand on Jefferson’s shoulder, then thought better of it and ordered another rum.  
  
     “Well, what is the problem, Jefferson?” He asked, trying and failing, to not sound too annoyed. “Do you need your wife that much?” The words sat uncomfortably on his tongue. Jefferson’s wife. Of course, Jefferson had a wife. He had a wife too. He blinked, his thoughts suddenly thrown into perspective. What would Abigail say if he told her how much he’d been thinking about Thomas? The ways he’d been thinking about Thomas? He grimaced at the thought. He threw his mug back, the rum burning his throat. He couldn’t keep doing this. He could be hanged for this. Thrown into the fiery pits of eternal damnation for this. But Jefferson looked at him, offered a weak smile, and John simply stopped thinking.   
  
     “I do miss her, Mr. Adams,” He said quietly, “But I don’t think that’s it.” He took another sip of his drink and leaned back slightly, staring up at the ceiling with a tired sigh. “I’m… uninspired.” John scoffed into his rum and fixed Thomas with a sideways glance.  
  
     “Tell me about it.”   
  
     Thomas pouted, resting his chin on his hand, his shoulders slumped in quite a depressing manner. “It’s true!” He gave a miserable sigh that John decided was all too melodramatic. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t write. I just sit at my desk and do nothing. It’s terrible.” John gave him an empathetic look, his eyebrows raising slightly.  
  
     “You can’t sleep either?” John asked quietly. Thomas just solemnly shook his head, taking a swig of his rum and running his hand across his eyes. John laid his hand, without really noticing, on Thomas’s back, gently rubbing comforting circles as he took another swig of his drink. Thomas didn’t say anything but leaned ever so slightly into John’s hand.   
  
     “I haven’t slept well in weeks,” John lamented, trying to find some commonality with the Virginian. “I suppose that’s why I’m here.” He finished off his mug of rum, then ordered another to prove his point. Thomas turned to look at him, his eyes alight with concern. His face suddenly feeling quite warm, John looked away in embarrassment, taking his hand from Thomas’s back and holding his mug in both hands.   
  
     “Drinking this much can’t be healthy, John…” Thomas said quietly. John opened his mouth to respond, but Thomas continued, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Especially for someone of your… stature.” John scowled, his eyebrows furrowing over his naturally bright eyes. The barest hint of a teasing smirk played on Thomas’s lips. John started to say something, his lip trembled slightly, and he hid his face behind his mug. John would have been angry but Thomas gave the faintest laugh and John felt his chest suddenly grow warm with a mysterious feeling. John bit down on his lip. He wasn’t sure whether it made him happy or frustrated, but the feeling refused to go away and left him constantly confused and annoyed. His mind often toyed with the idea of calling the indescribable feeling affection; he scoffed at the thought. Thomas was another man, he wasn’t about to go around feeling _affectionate_ towards him. Still, every smile, every sideways glance made John’s heart pound in his chest and he often found himself daydreaming of being able to count every single freckle that decorated Thomas’s skin.   
  
     A hand on his shoulder and a concerned gaze shook him from his thoughts. “Are you still with me, John?” Thomas asked. John blinked and nodded, forcing the thoughts deep, deep down into the most hidden recesses of his mind. John was so close to simply shutting the thoughts out when Thomas smiled, in that frankly adorable way that highlighted the softness of his cheeks, and suddenly all the thoughts came, quite frustratingly, rushing back. John forced himself to look away as Thomas squeezed his shoulder.   
  
     “We really oughta get you home, John…” Thomas chided him. John could hear the amusement in his voice.   
  
     “Thomas, you’ve had just as much to drink as I have, if not more,” John said pointedly, taking another sip of his drink. Thomas grinned. John knew he was more than a little drunk, but he loved a good argument and he hated seceding to anyone, especially smug Virginians.  
  
     “Yes, I have, John, but we both know I’m physically capable of consuming more alcohol than you.” John glowered at him. For all of Thomas’s height and broad shoulders, there was still no way Thomas should have been able to drink more than him. He was from Boston, after all. Still, that smug grin was lighting up Thomas’s face and warming John’s chest. John ordered another rum without breaking eye contact, and Thomas gaped at him, alarmedly mumbling something as John drained the entire contents of the tankard. He slammed the mug down onto the counter in front of him, earning himself a blank stare from Thomas.  
  
     “Try me.”  
  
     “No, no, you win, Mr. A.”   
  
     John scowled, stifling a hiccup into his hand as Thomas’s blank stare slowly melted into an amused smile. As his eyes met Thomas’s, John’s composure weakened and he gave a soft sigh, resting his head on his arms. Thomas returned his hand to its spot on John’s shoulder. He gave John’s shoulder a gentle shove in the direction of the door.  
  
     “I still think we ought to get you home, Mr. Adams.” John lazily opened one eye, then sat up with a tired sigh.  
  
     “Oh, alright, I suppose.” He slid off from his seat, only to nearly fall and brace himself against the counter. Thomas quickly reached out, his hand protectively against John’s chest, before he bashfully handed him his walking stick. John could only look down at the pale, lightly freckled hand pressed warmly against his chest before Thomas fervently pulled it away. With trembling fingers, John took his cane and leaned heavily against it.   
  
     “I told you you couldn’t drink that much,” Thomas said, not quite looking at him, his cheeks still red from the embarrassment of their momentary contact. John just gave an annoyed grunt and marched stiffly out of the tavern, giving the occasional yelp as he was elbowed, shoving his way through the crowd. Thomas followed with what could only be described as an affectionate smile, carefully making sure John wouldn’t get trampled by any equally intoxicated patrons of the tavern.   
  
     John breathed in deeply the night air, only just realizing how much he’d missed it, in contrast to the polluted smokiness of the tavern. It was still hot, but no longer intolerable, and he would have laid down on the cobblestones and fallen asleep right there if he hadn’t felt a familiar warm hand on his back. He looked up at Thomas, who stood beside him but refused to make eye contact, the streetlamps reflecting warmly off his copper hair. He continued to watch Thomas, staring off into the distance, biting his lip thoughtfully. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and John waited expectantly. He should have known better, he realized; no amount of waiting was likely to make Jefferson talk. Instead, he prodded Thomas’s side with his finger, somewhat forcefully, and waited for Thomas to look down at him. Thomas raised his eyebrows questioningly.   
  
     “Do you have something you’d like to say, Thomas?” John asked quietly, attempting to be polite as to not frighten the quiet Virginian. Thomas looked back up at the row of streetlamps.  
  
     “I was just… wondering.” John blinked. That was entirely unhelpful. Yet there was something so endearing about Thomas’s roundabout manner of speaking.  
  
     “Wondering..?” He prodded.  
  
     “Wondering if it would be more convenient for you to stay the night in my apartment.”  
  
     John blanked for a moment, his pale blue eyes going wide in disbelief as he quickly looked away, his attention suddenly captured by the streetlamps.   
  
     “It’s just…” Thomas continued, “I live quite close to here. And you look as if you’re about to fall over.” Thomas wouldn’t look at him and John couldn’t tell whether the red tint on his cheeks was from embarrassment, or simply an effect of the lamplight. John cleared his throat nervously, feeling somewhat lightheaded. Perhaps he had too much to drink after all.  
  
     “I suppose that would be quite beneficial…” He glanced up at Jefferson, their eyes finally meeting. “I could take some time to look over what you have written so far.” Thomas grimaced.  
  
     “Don’t make me rescind my invitation, Mr. Adams.” John grinned, giving Thomas a playful shove only to nearly fall over and brace himself against his cane.   
  
     “I must admit, with great shame, it would be quite difficult for me to venture to my lodgings in my current state, sir. So,” John gave a melodramatic sigh, “I must accept your invitation.” Thomas smiled so brightly that John almost felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.   
  
     They walked together for a few blocks in companionable silence, not feeling any need to fill the void with pointless words. That was, until, John stumbled over a loosened cobblestone, nearly falling on his face, but somehow having the reflexes to catch himself. When his momentary alarm was assuaged, Thomas laughed loudly in a way that made John feel both embarrassed and annoyingly affectionate.   
  
     “Mr. Adams, I hadn’t realized your condition was so dire.” He paused for a moment as the pair continued walking. “Would you have me carry you the rest of the way?” The smirk on Thomas’s face assured John he was only joking, but John couldn’t help but feel his face grow warm.   
  
     “I doubt you could, Mr. Jefferson,” John scowled. “You don’t look as if you have the strength.” Thomas gave a breathy laugh at his own expense.   
  
     “I can carry my wife, you know.” 

     John rolled his eyes, determinedly picking up his pace.  “I am not your wife, Jefferson!” 

     Thomas paused there in the street, his face devoid of any emotion.

  
     “No sir, you’re smaller, I believe.” John felt a rush of frustration overtake him, and he opened his mouth to snap a sharp rebuttal, but Thomas scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Well, no, you might be heavier. But certainly not taller.” John’s entire face went red and he only walked quicker. Something about being compared to Thomas’s wife… something about it made him feel oddly, frustratingly hot.   
  
     “We are not having this conversation, Thomas,” he snapped, and Thomas smirked, hurriedly jogging after him.  
  
     “If you insist, Mr. A.”  
  
     The rest of the walk to Thomas’s apartment was filled with further companionable silence, albeit with a bit more tension on John’s behalf. Thomas didn’t seem to notice it, John realized, and perhaps a fair bit of alcohol did wonders for the Virginian’s normally solemn disposition. Thomas indicated silently that they’d reached his apartment with a hand on John’s shoulder and John slowly, embarrassingly slowly, made his way up the steep steps as Thomas unlocked the door.   
  


     It was dark inside, but John could still see the scattered remnants of half-finished works, sentences that trailed off and words that ended in dark puddles of ink scattered across the floor. It hurt to see such precious work, such literary prowess discarded across the floor, and while Thomas was busy lighting a candle John picked up one of the longer paragraphs from the floor and folded it neatly, tucking the parchment away in his coat pocket. When the room was suddenly illuminated by flickering orange candlelight, John noticed Thomas striding over to him, before he placed his hands on the collar of his coat and gently motioned for John to remove it. John slowly shrugged off his coat, all too aware of Thomas’s hands brushing against his neck. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine. Thomas hung his coat neatly up on a hook as John continued to stand around awkwardly.   
  
     “Where would you have me sleep?” He asked stiffly. Thomas blinked as if the answer was obvious.  
  
     “The bed is big enough for the both of us, John, especially because-”  
  
     “Don’t,” John snapped, sensing from the smirk on Thomas’s lips that another quip about his height was coming. Thomas simply grinned and, with a push to John’s chest, sat him down on the bed. John was exhausted, and his head was starting to hurt, so he barely even registered it when Thomas got down on his knees and delicately began removing John’s shoes. John’s eyes widened momentarily, then he looked away, wondering how the hell he’d managed to get to this point, and why the hell the feelings Thomas instilled in him were still such a mystery.  
  
     “I’ll let you sleep in your clothes,” Thomas mumbled, “But the shoes are a no-go.” John nodded, only barely registering the things Thomas said at this point. All he could focus on was the sensation of Thomas’s fingers against his calf, Thomas’s fingers brushing against his foot in a way that made him twitch. The way Thomas firmly held his ankle as he removed his shoe. Thomas simply didn’t seem to notice, his mind too addled by what he consumed to pay attention to the rather intimate contact he was making. Blinking, John realized that perhaps his mind had been addled by what he consumed as well. Perhaps he was simply noticing too much.  
  
     Either way, Thomas stood up with a grunt before beckoning John to lie down, so that he might lie down beside him. John hurriedly curled up on his side as Thomas got into the bed, his long limbs finding it difficult to get accustomed to John’s presence. Thomas looked at him pointedly for a moment. “This isn’t… weird, to you, is it, John?”  
  
     John blinked, his pale eyes wide. Sure it was weird, but weird in a way that it was also everything he’d hoped for. “Not at all, Thomas.” Thomas smiled, and John wanted to hide his face under his pillow.   
  
     “Good.” Thomas leaned over to the nightstand and extinguished the single candle illuminating the room. “Goodnight Mr. Adams.” Thomas could no longer see how John was blushing in the darkness that now enveloped the room, and for that John was thankful.  
  
     “Goodnight, Mr. Jefferson.”


	3. Chapter Three

     The cobblestones were refreshingly cool against John’s cheek; the metallic taste of blood on his lips, however, was not. His head throbbed as he laid on the ground, watching blood pool around his face, trickling slowly between the stones of the street. He felt as if he should get up, but every breath he took made him wince. It took him multiple tries to slowly pick his head up from the ground, his hair damp and sticky with blood. Sitting up, he braced himself against the nearest wall, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand for a while yet. His vision was still oddly blurred as he tried to recollect what had just happened. His head hurt immensely, not to mention his nose- oh god. He ran his fingers along the bridge of his nose, not quite recognizing the now bent shape. The slight touch made him hiss through his teeth in pain, and he braced himself with his hands, at risk of falling over again. His lip was swollen and his entire mouth tasted like blood, but at least his teeth and jaw were intact. He let out a beleaguered sigh, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall behind him.

 

     He’d really just been minding his own business, getting a drink at the local tavern after a largely uneventful and disappointing day. Minding his own business, drowning his failures in rum, staring at the warped lines in the wood of the bar and wishing, deep down, that Thomas was there. John knew full well that he was the most hated man in Philadelphia. He’d made peace with that fact since really the largely nonviolent Quaker population would do nothing more than brazenly avoid him. Apparently, though, his pushes for independence in Congress were becoming more and more known to the loyalist locals. Apparently, the locals’ hatred for him had started to outweigh their Quaker sensibilities.  
  
     The tension in the tavern had started to increase the longer he’d stayed, and John could clearly sense it. Harsh whispers and sideways glances were becoming all the more obvious to him and he could feel a pit of unease burning in his stomach. His heart rate had started to increase as he caught the eyes of a group of men in the far, shadowy corner of the room, and he quickly paid his bill and left, shoving his way through the crowd as the panic in his chest only increased.  
  
     When he was again standing in the cool night air, he felt safe for a moment, only to hear himself followed out of the tavern. He winced, before turning around and facing the group of men that had followed him. He took a step back instinctively.  
  
     “Now look I don’t-” It was a hurried attempt at making peace that quickly failed as a fist hit him in the mouth and sent him careening backwards. His vision went white as his head hit the ground, yet he was still conscious enough to feel himself get kicked in the face. A shoe planted into his ribs made a sickening cracking noise and he couldn’t help but yell in pain. He curled up in on himself pathetically, his arms trying in vain to protect his face, and eventually, the men seemed to grow tired of him and sauntered off into the night, leaving him trembling on the ground for what must have been hours.  
  
     As he ran his fingers over his face he groaned audibly, unable to remember the last time he’d been in so much pain. His face was hot with bruises and a cut on his forehead slowly let a trickle of blood fall over his eye in a way that started to obscure his vision. He ran his tongue over his split lip, feeling a bit nauseous at the metallic taste and slowly, shakily pushed himself up to a standing position. He nearly passed out then and there but braced himself heavily against the wall. His jaw clenched as he felt hot tears prick in the corners of his eyes and he hurriedly wiped them away, despite the pain of touching his face. He righted himself, straightening his coat; John Adams did not cry. He was a dignified man and he would march on home and go into work the next day as if nothing had happened at all. As he’d turned to head to his apartment, a thought struck his mind; Thomas’s apartment was closer, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to make the walk home. He was about to keel over as it was. And, deep down, he realized that he didn’t quite mind Thomas seeing him in this state. He’d resolved then, to stay the night in Thomas’s apartment, and, if for some reason Thomas wouldn’t have him, he would just pass out right outside his door.

 

     On the walk to Thomas’s apartment, John stumbled over his own shoes more times than he could count. His mind wandered back to a few nights prior, when Thomas had offered to carry him, and he laughed out loud. God, he wished Thomas were here to carry him now. The walk took too long; he had to stop multiple times from dizziness or nausea or just a general exhaustion that seemed to creep into his bones.  
  
     Eventually, he found himself knocking on Thomas’s door with scraped knuckles, not entirely sure how he made it up the stairs. Upon hearing no response he knocked again, harder more feverishly, and didn’t stop until he heard disgruntled movement from inside. A grunt and some shuffling; Thomas must have been asleep.  
  
     “Thomas?” John called nervously, his voice cracking halfway through Jefferson’s name.  
  
     “What?!” He was annoyed. He had every right to be, John reasoned.  
  
     “I…” John didn’t even know what to say. He leaned heavily on the door frame. “Can I come in?” He winced at his own pathetic voice. Some frustrated muttering caused guilt to sit heavily in his stomach. The door swung open and John could have sworn he’d never seen Thomas look so annoyed.  
  
     “Mr. Adams, it is one in the morning, what the hell is-” John’s eyes were suddenly drawn to his shoes. Thomas gave an audible gasp then was concerningly silent for a long moment. John couldn’t look up from the floor. “John,” Thomas said softly, his voice laced with worry and disbelief. John noticed his own fingers trembling as he gripped the doorframe. “John, what the hell happened to you?!” Thomas’s hand laid heavily on John’s shoulder as he hurriedly guided him inside, removing his coat and sitting him down on the bed, crouching slightly as to be at eye level with the man. John simply couldn’t look at him; he’d never been more ashamed of himself. Luckily the blood on his face had dried so he wouldn’t make much of a mess. Thomas still looked at him with a level of concern he’d never seen on the Virginian, perhaps on anybody. He felt his shoulders shake as he took a breath.  
  
     “Some of the locals have taken to… protesting my pushes for independence.” John could hear Thomas’s breath catch in his chest and he looked up for a moment to see a rare anger blazing in the Virginian’s eyes. Thomas’s jaw twitched and John only felt even more ashamed of himself. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d simply wandered off and died in a gutter. Thomas stood up abruptly, turning on his heel and heading towards the door. John opened his mouth to say something.  
  
     “I’ll be back in a moment, John,” Thomas called softly back at him, and shut the door behind him. John let his mouth fall shut as he stared at the door blankly. He felt safer, at least, than he had, but every moment without Thomas’s presence was becoming more and more upsetting. Still, through all the pain he couldn’t manage to put a label on the mystery of feelings Thomas gave him. Thomas returned quickly enough with a pail of water and didn’t speak as he fished a handkerchief from his dresser. John swallowed. He wasn’t quite sure what Thomas was doing, but he lacked the strength to question it. He trusted Thomas and he supposed that was all that mattered. Thomas returned to him, kneeling down in front of him as he had a few nights prior. He carefully wetted the handkerchief in a bowl of warmed water and gently began wiping the blood from John’s forehead. John winced, the contact making him hiss through his teeth in pain, and Thomas gently hushed him, taking John’s hand in his own.  
  
     “Don’t talk, John,” Thomas said softly, running his thumb across John’s scraped hand. “Just relax.” John’s breath shuddered in his chest as he felt himself get hit with another wave of emotion. He ran his tongue across his split lip. Everything hurt and his ego was wounded terribly, and all he could feel was a flood of frustration, pain, and sadness. Still, Thomas’s presence brought with it an inherent comfort and John wanted nothing more than to simply close his eyes and fall asleep.  
  
     “But talking is all I’m good for, Thomas.” Thomas smiled faintly at John’s self-deprecation, wiping the blood from the smaller man’s cheeks. John felt an unhappy twisting in his stomach and he fought back the tears he felt pricking in his eyes, squaring his jaw fiercely. “It’s the reason everyone hates me so much.” Thomas paused, sitting back on his heels and looking up at John in what could have only been sincere confusion. He cocked his head slightly to one side.  
  
     “I don’t hate you, John,” he said, so quietly that John almost didn’t hear it. John blinked down at him, his entire body throbbing with pain as Thomas stared back up at him with puppyish eyes. A wave of emotions flooded John’s exhausted consciousness and he bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying. It didn’t work and in a mess of sobs, he quickly found himself in Thomas’s lap as Thomas wrapped his arms around him, first stiffly, then with increasing warmth. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried so messily, or the last time he’d cried at all for that matter. His chest heaved painfully as tears ran freely down his cheeks and onto Thomas’s chest. Thomas just slowly rubbed calming circles on his back, quietly whispering comforting words into his ear as John clung to Thomas’s shirt, holding on to him as if it might kill him to be separated. Part of him felt it would.  
  
     John usually didn’t mind being loud, but he found himself getting so embarrassed at the sound of his own crying. Despite this, he couldn’t stop no matter how hard he tried, and he must have sat in Thomas’s lap for at least half an hour before his sobs devolved into quiet sniffles, and he gained the mental fortitude to remove his face from Thomas’s chest. Thomas gave him a tired smile and John could only blush and look away. John hadn’t realized until that moment that he was in Thomas’s lap, that he’d been in Thomas’s arms, sobbing into his chest for the last half hour. The intimacy of it all gave him a nervously warm sensation in his stomach.  
  
     “I’m sorry-” John began. Thomas pressed a finger tenderly to his bruised lips.  
  
     “Don’t.” He leaned back a little to better examine John’s injuries as he resumed cleaning the dried blood from his face. John let his eyes fall shut as Thomas took care of him, John’s shuddering breaths and occasional sniffles the only audible sounds in the room. “You poor thing,” Thomas murmured. John let a faint, bitter smile switch onto his lips. He shrugged.  
  
     “Well, it’s not like I was much to look at before anyway.” Thomas stopped for a moment to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in annoyed confusion.  
  
     “Don’t be stupid, John,” He said before he continued cleaning the gash in John’s forehead. John blushed again, looking down at his lap as Thomas continued speaking. “You’ve got very nice eyes,” he said nonchalantly, the exhaustion eminent in his voice. “Nice eyelashes. Nice lips,” Thomas wasn’t making eye contact while he spoke, he was far too invested in John’s injuries, and John was glad for it. His entire face went warm and Thomas’s words gave him an indescribable sense of happiness in his chest. Still, he scoffed, trying his best to still seem casual.  
  
     “My face is messed up now anyway, I suppose.” He chewed on his lip. “Just look at my nose. It was weird before, now it’s just entirely fucked.” Thomas blinked, looking down at John’s crooked nose.  
  
     “Weird, yes, but still handsome.” After a moment of silence, Thomas paused and looked down at him. “Seriously, John. You’re quite handsome, so stop complaining.” With that, he slowly wound a bandage around the cut in John’s forehead and, when he was suitably satisfied with his handiwork, slowly stood up and helped John up onto the bed. John gave a quiet grunt as Thomas gripped one of the many bruises on his arms and carefully settled him on the bed. He was so tired he almost didn’t notice when Thomas began unbuttoning his waistcoat. John hurriedly placed a hand on top of Thomas’s.  
  
     “What are you doing?” He asked hoarsely. Thomas looked at him like he’d asked a stupid question. Perhaps he had.  
  
     “I’m guessing you’re hurt, John.” Thomas looked pointedly at John’s chest. John swallowed. His ribs hurt immensely, and he could have sworn he heard a faint crackling noise every time he breathed in too deeply. Still… he bit down on his lip until Thomas motioned for him to stop, lest he hurt himself. John simply sighed and looked away as Thomas continued, until he slowly, gently pulled the waistcoat from John’s shoulders and draped it neatly over a chair. He slowly tugged John’s cravat loose from his neck, letting it fall to the floor. John didn’t mind, it was irreparably bloodstained anyway. The gentle brushing of Thomas’ fingertips against his jaw, his neck, his collarbone as he unbuttoned his shirt gave John a cacophony of feelings he couldn’t quite describe. As Thomas’s hands reached just below his chest though, another wave of nervousness sparked within John and returned his hand to Thomas’s. Thomas just gave him a pitying look that only embarrassed him further.  
  
     “John…” He trailed off, John’s nervously sad expression proving to be contagious. John looked away.  
  
     “You won’t like-”  
  
     Thomas hurriedly waved John’s hand away. “No, John. Don’t start.” It was quiet but firm. “I’ve already told you you’re handsome, anyway.” A bitter smile returned to John’s lips. Still, his fingers nervously gripped at the bedsheets.  
  
     “Really though, Thomas, I’m honestly quite-” Another finger pressed to his lips.  
  
     “John!” It was louder this time and Thomas looked more distraught. He slowly removed his finger from John’s lips, moving it to trail across John’s waist. He let out a shuddering breath before he spoke. “John, I…” He swallowed, making eye contact for only a brief moment. “I care very deeply for you, John.” John’s eyes went wide as Thomas’s voice wavered. “So please don’t think that you or your body could ever disappoint me.” The look in Thomas’s eyes was harrowingly serious, and John couldn’t bring himself to look away, so he just gave a faint nod. The two of them simply stared at each other for a moment before Thomas returned to what he was doing, only to give a startled gasp at the reddish bruise that spread across John’s ribcage.  
  
     “Oh, John,” He murmured, and John gave a gentle sigh,  
  
     “It’s not that bad, Tom, really.” Thomas looked at him, pointedly, annoyedly, and pressed a finger into the center of John’s ribcage. John gave a pained yelp, scooting back away from Thomas on the bed. Thomas rolled his eyes.  
  
     “Not that bad, John?” John glared up at him like a wounded animal.  
  
     “Shut up.”  
  
     Thomas simply shook his head, placing his hands on John’s hips and pulling him back to his original position. He then kneeled before him, as was becoming increasingly customary, and soaked the handkerchief in now-room temperature water. He held one of John’s hands in his own as he pressed the wet cloth against John’s chest, eliciting a small gasp from the injured man as droplets of water rolled down his chest and stomach. He let his eyes fall shut, a bit of the pain in his chest finally eased for the first time that night. He sat like that, his eyes closed until Thomas rested his head on his knee, letting his own eyes fall shut for a moment. After a moment, John whispered to no one in particular, “It hurts…”  
  
     Thomas’s eyes fluttered open. “Where?” John’s eyes slowly opened as well; he wasn’t actually expecting a response. He shrugged.  
  
     “My ribs. My head. My nose. My lips. Everywhere.”  
  
     A bitter smile twitched on Thomas’s lips, and he slowly rose back to his knees. He chewed on his lip thoughtfully while John gave him a sad look. “I do,” Tom began as he rose to his feet, “Have a secret technique that’s meant to help with most pain.” He groaned as he stood up, arcing his stiff back. John looked at him, a single eyebrow raised questioningly.  
  
     “Oh?”  
  
     Thomas smiled, before leaning over him, his hands on the bed. John swallowed as he suddenly thought back to that moment on the stairs. Thomas’s cheeks went red and he hesitated for a moment before John’s lips parted in a silent gasp and Thomas’s lips pressed to the center of the bruise on his ribs. Thomas then looked back up to him before pressing another kiss to the bandage on his forehead, then to the crooked bridge of his nose. He paused, pulling back slightly and cocking his head a bit to the side as he looked at John questioningly. John’s eyes widened as he realized what Thomas was asking of him. His breath caught in his chest and he felt suddenly dizzy with emotion, but Thomas smiled, his lips hovering over John’s.


	4. Chapter Four

     It was a familiarly warm evening that John spent lounging in Thomas’s bed, idly perusing a book that he wasn’t quite interested in. He leafed his thumb through the pages before giving it up and letting it fall out of his hands and onto his stomach, giving a tired sigh as he stared up at the ceiling. Thomas’s bed was much more comfortable than his, he’d come to realize, one of the benefits of coming from an insanely rich family. That was simply the reason he’d taken to spending the night so often; Thomas’s house was closer to the tavern and to the statehouse, and Thomas’s bed was extremely comfortable. He attempted again to pick up the book, but his eyes simply trailed over the words, unable to focus. He could hardly think over a constant, rhythmic creaking sound that echoed throughout the room, over and over and over. The noise was beginning to wear terribly on his nerves, and his jaw clenched in annoyance until it started to ache. As the noise continued, John tossed the book aside and glanced quickly around the room, trying to find the source. When he found it he blinked dully at Thomas, who was rotating slowly in his chair, a blank expression on his face, the chair giving a pitiful creak every time he went around. John scowled, sliding down from the bed and stalking over to him while his back was turned, before grabbing him sharply by the shoulders, stopping him in place. Thomas didn’t respond and John leaned his head over his shoulder.  
  
     “If you’re just sitting here, rotating in this abomination of a chair, I’m guessing the declaration is finished?” He asked through his teeth. Thomas just blinked at the far wall, not responding for a long moment. John wondered how the hell the Virginian could make him feel so damned happy when he was constantly trying his patience like this.  
  
     “No sir,” Thomas replied without any audible emotion in his voice. John fixed him with an annoyed look, though he knew Thomas couldn’t see. He gave a forceful push to one of Thomas’s shoulders, waiting for the chair to lazily circle around halfway, and grabbed Thomas by the shoulders again, leaning in close to his face.   
  
     “Well,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice entirely noticeable, “What seems to be the issue?” Thomas merely blinked up at him, their faces inches apart, before he plucked the quill pen from his desk and began amusing himself with the feather. John watched Thomas’s fingers sliding across the barbs of the quill as he sat there in silence. This silence had grown increasingly more familiar in the past few days, though it was no less annoying. With a sigh, John stepped back, running his hands through his hair, wincing as he brushed against the bandage on his forehead. His eyes still wandered down to Thomas’s disinterested face, disgusted by the way he found himself wanting to kiss every freckle he saw. He swallowed nervously at the thought. They still hadn’t discussed how Thomas had kissed him a few nights ago, and taking into consideration his exhaustion and his head injury, John was convinced he’d merely imagined it. He’d imagined many similar things anyway. Eventually, Thomas looked up at him, his eyes dull and tired.   
  
     “I don’t know, John. I’m still so-”   
  
     John cut him off with a roll of his eyes. “Uninspired?” He asked testily. Thomas nodded, resting his chin in his hand and watching his quill as he spun it around in his fingers. John put his hands on his hips, knowing full well it was hard for him to appear intimidating with his stature. “Well?” He prompted, losing his patience. “How can we fix that?” Thomas merely shrugged, spinning around in his chair once again. He finally looked up at John, with an uncharacteristic determination.  
  
     “I need to see my wife.”  
  
     John felt an odd nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sure she’d just distract you, Thomas,” he said quickly and dismissively. John looked away, feigning sudden interest in the woodwork. Thomas finally gave him a tiny smirk.  
  
     “Much like how you’re doing, Mr. Adams?”  John opened his mouth to protest, then swung his arms in front of him in a defeated manner, causing Thomas to smile wider.  
  
     “Oh, whatever.” 

 

     Thomas laughed and pushed himself up from his chair, the height difference between them suddenly exacerbated. John took a step back as the Virginian leaned over him, his eyes bright with amusement. John could feel his heart begin to beat faster at the sight of Thomas’s smile, and it was still such a mystery to him as to how Thomas could make him feel so similar to how Abigail made him feel. It made entirely no sense at all. Thomas then raised his arms above his head with a groan, forcing John to look away.   
  
     “I need to get out of here, John,” Thomas said dully as he stretched out his absurdly long limbs, staring out the window. John blinked, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and leaned slightly to the side to examine the gradually expanding pile of crumpled papers at the foot of Thomas’s desk. He sighed with a defeated look.   
  
     “Alright, alright, let’s get dinner.” Thomas gave him the same bright smile that never failed to warm his heart as John took his coat from where it was draped over the end of the bed. John gave Thomas a pointed look. “Don’t get too excited Tom, you just need to eat so you have the strength to finish my declaration.” Thomas’s eyebrows raised at that and he looked at John in bewilderment.  
  
      _“Your_ declaration, Mr. Adams?” 

 

     John blinked. “Yes. Mine. I made you do it, didn’t I?” 

 

     Thomas snorted and shrugged on his own coat, not bothering to worry about his half-unbuttoned waistcoat and rumpled cravat. John couldn’t help but smile a little at his own joke as Thomas placed a hand on his back, guiding him out the door.  
  
     It was late evening outside, one end of the street bathed in the last remnants of the pinkish sunset and the other only illuminated by the coppery glow of streetlamps. The air was still stiflingly hot, but at least it was fresher than indoors, and John slowly made his way down the steep steps outside of Thomas’s apartment. He still had bruises on his shins from tripping up and down those stairs multiple times in the last week, he remembered with annoyance and embarrassment. He wondered how Thomas managed, what with his unruly limbs. As John was waiting for Thomas to lock his door and follow him, John stood on the edge of the street, staring at nothing in particular until a cat scampered out of a nearby bush, stopping a few feet in front of him. John blinked at the bright green eyes that reflected the glow of the streetlamps. The cat blinked back at him, then scampered away upon Thomas’s arrival. Thomas placed a hand on John’s shoulder, seemingly not having noticed the cat as the pair walked down the street in their usual companionable silence. For a man who liked to complain as much as he did, the sensation of Thomas’s hand on his shoulder, the light noise of Thomas’s breathing, just Thomas’s presence in general did wonders to assuage any negative feelings in his mind.  
  
     It wasn’t long before the two found themselves at a table their usual tavern, having forgone their usual seats at the bar. John still looked around anxiously, admittedly fearful of returning back there after what had happened a few nights before. Still, Thomas’s presence had a way of making him feel safe, and he was glad he wasn’t alone. The two didn’t really have much to say to each other, seeing as they hadn’t really been without each other much at all for the last few days, but John idly asked about the progress of the declaration and Thomas would give him a pointed glare, asking if he was capable of thinking of anything else. John blushed and looked away, hating how he couldn’t see Thomas’s freckles in the dim light of the tavern.   
  
     They’d both been about to dig into their food when they were startled by a hand slamming on their table and a familiar voice. John jumped, fearing the worst. He slowly looked up and, upon recognizing a familiar shade of green and an obnoxious hairdo, he realized he’d found something worse than the worst. John blinked up at the last person on Earth he felt like talking to.  
  
     “Mr. Dickinson,” he said flatly, “What can I do for you?”   
  
     Dickinson’s tongue ran over his lips as he stared down at him, his familiar intimidating glare only wearing on John’s nerves. Thomas didn’t seem to care at all for the situation and continued tearing into his dinner as if he hadn’t even noticed the other man’s arrival. John envied him.   
  
     “I have been looking everywhere for you,” Dickinson hissed. John just stared up at him blankly, not sure why the hell he’d be doing that. Dickinson was silent for a moment, waiting for him to catch up with his meaning. He didn’t. Dickinson simply rolled his eyes, leaning further over their table. Thomas still wasn’t paying him any attention. “You promised you’d deliver me those documents over a week ago,” he snapped as John idly stabbed at his turkey with his fork. “I show up at your house on Monday, you’re not there. I show up at your house on Tuesday, you’re not there. I show up-”   
  
     “All right!” John snapped, throwing his arms up and nearly stabbing Dickinson in the eye with his fork. Dickinson reeled backward, his anger momentarily replaced with fear. His usual glare quickly returned though and he fixed John with a scowl.  
  
     “So where the hell have you been?” He hissed through his teeth. John glared back at him, his mind reeling for what to say. Sifting through his thoughts, his eyes flicked towards Thomas for a moment. It was completely innocuous, but unfortunately, entirely telling. His glare vanishing into bewilderment, Dickinson’s eyes moved towards Thomas for a moment, where they lingered, far too long in John’s opinion. The bewildered look slowly morphed to a shaky smirk, then a wild grin as he gawked at John, whose face slowly reddened. John looked down into his food, wishing Dickinson would simply die for more reasons than he could count. Dickinson gave him a humorless laugh, shaking his head smugly. “John you naughty boy.”  
  
     John didn’t remove his eyes from his mashed potatoes. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, Mr. Dickinson,” he replied sharply. Dickinson simply leaned his weight against their table.   
  
     “A whole week, John?” Dickinson prodded, the humor audible in his voice. “You’ve been staying with him the entire week?” John’s eyes flicked up to meet his, a frustrated grimace on his face.  
  
     “It’s entirely innocuous, Mr. Dickinson,” John’s expression suddenly shifted to an innocent smile. “Just like how Mr. Wilson spends all his evenings with you.” Dickinson’s smirk vanished and his face reddened, unable to formulate a response. He simply nodded, before turning on his heel and stalking off to his own table where, as always, John noted with a smirk, Wilson awaited him expectantly. John turned back to Thomas and let out a tired sigh. “That was… obnoxious.” Thomas didn’t respond, in fact, he’d gone entirely blank as he stared down at the table, not moving. John’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Thomas?” Thomas blinked, looking up at him, his lips parted with a question. John waited patiently for the man to formulate his thoughts.   
  
     “Mr. Adams,” He began slowly, “Why have you been spending the entire week in my apartment?” John’s cheeks quickly reddened as he thought of a thousand excuses, and Thomas’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I’m not saying I mind,” he said quickly. John swallowed, pushing his food back and forth across his plate with his fork.  
  
     “Someone has to make sure you’re working, of course,” he said dismissively. Thomas looked at him as if he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t push the question further. John gave a sigh of relief. The rest of the meal passed in silence, for which John was entirely grateful. When they both were quite satisfied (John insisting he’d pay the bill, much to Thomas’s discomfort), the two made their way out, but not before John stopped at the bar, quietly ordering something while Thomas watched him from the door. The transaction was made and John quickly followed after Thomas, who didn’t ask him anything, as John expected he wouldn’t. It was quite late as they walked back to Thomas’s apartment, John not even considering going home to his own. When they arrived though, John stopped in front of one of the hedges outside the apartment, crouching down and retrieving a bottle of milk from his inner coat pocket.  
  
     “What are you doing, John?” Thomas asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand.  
  
     “Nothing, Thomas,” John responded as he poured the milk into a saucer that he’d placed down onto the cobblestones. “Go to bed.” Thomas just scoffed and stood next to him as John crouched there, patiently for a few minutes. Thomas opened his mouth to say something when the same cat from before crept out from the bushes, staring at John for a brief moment before drinking the milk from the saucer in front of him. Thomas simply stared down at John in bewilderment, but John paid him no mind, instead slowly, carefully reaching out to scratch the small cat behind its ears. With an amazed smile, Thomas sat down beside John, watching him pet the small creature lovingly.  
  
     “You know John,” Thomas said slowly, “If you feed them they’ll never go away.” John continued scratching the cat’s ears as he looked at Thomas, fighting back a smirk and, for once, succeeding.  
  
     “Why else do you think I took you out for dinner?”  
  
     Thomas laughed out loud, startling both John and the cat, causing the cat to scamper off back into the bushes. John watched it go with an unmistakable look of disappointment and Thomas placed a hand on his back apologetically. John glared at him.  
  
     “Good going, idiot.”   
  
     Thomas looked down at the ground until John sat beside him, crossing his legs beneath him and staring off into the bushes. John slowly, almost subconsciously, shifted closer to him. He was tired and contemplated resting his head on Thomas’s shoulder, but thought better of it.   
  
     “Do you like cats, John?” Thomas asked quietly. John gave an affirmative hum. Thomas didn’t respond for a while but eventually looked at John with a smile. John’s eyebrows raised questioningly. “You know,” Thomas said with a laugh, “You’re kind of like a cat.” John’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back slightly.  
  
     “How do you mean?”   
  
     Thomas grinned and placed his hand on the back of John’s head, scratching him gently behind the ears. John was embarrassed to note how much he enjoyed it. “Well,” Thomas began, “You’re quite small-”  
  
     “Oh good god-”  
  
     “I’m not done. You’re small and rather grouchy-”  
  
     “Thanks.”  
  
     “You have a propensity to lash out at people who bother you.”  
  
     “Mhm.”  
  
     “And,” Thomas paused, “When you get close enough to someone, you can be quite affectionate.” Thomas’s eyes wandered down to the cat, who’d returned and started tentatively nuzzling against John’s hand. John stared down at it in wide-eyed wonder. “Like that,” Thomas said softly. The two simply sat there for a while, watching as the cat rubbed its face against John’s hand. John smiled. He couldn’t help it. After a while Thomas huffed, looking up at the sky. “I only wish you’d be like that with me.”   
  
     John blinked. Did Thomas just-? Did he really just-? John’s eyes wandered from the cat, now licking his hand, to Thomas, who didn’t seem to find anything odd about what he’d said. His heart hammered nervously in his chest as John pulled his hands into his lap until eventually, Thomas’s eyes met his. The silence was nearly tangible as John’s lips parted with a question.  
  
     “You’d have me kiss you out here in the street, sir?” His voice wavered halfway through his sentence. Thomas only smiled shakily and returned his eyes to the stars.   
  
     “I was wondering why we hadn’t discussed how I kissed you a few nights ago.”  
  
     John looked down at the cat, who’d now busied itself with its own grooming. He swallowed. “I wasn’t quite sure it had happened.” Thomas gave him a confused look and John pointed to the bandage on his head. “Thought I might have imagined it.”   
  
     “Do you imagine such things often, Mr. Adams?”   
  
     John blushed and looked down at the ground, but his silence was telling. With a yawn, Thomas stood up, taking John’s hand in his own and helping him to his feet. John still couldn’t bring himself to look at him, but Thomas’s hand held his tightly and that familiar warm feeling returned as Thomas led him up the stairs and into his apartment. They resumed their familiar ritual of removing each other’s coats and waistcoats, lazily kicking off their shoes before clambering into bed. They would usually simply extinguish the lit candles and fall asleep together, but John assumed that they both had a lot on their mind and they both stared up at the ceiling, occasionally passing glances at one another. John ran his hands across his face in exhaustion and Thomas rolled over onto his side to face him.   
  
     “So…” Thomas prodded. John’s eyebrows raised slightly. Idle chatter was certainly not the Jefferson style.  
  
     “So?”  
  
     “So… do you think it’s weird that you’ve been staying every night at my house?” John blinked and looked back up at the ceiling. He did, in fact, think it was sort of weird, but it made him happy for a mysterious reason and he didn’t question why.   
  


     “Not really. Like I said it’s… perfectly innocuous.” Thomas nodded and John could tell he had more questions. He could sense the nervous tension emanating from the other man and it was starting to affect him too.  
  
     “Do you think I’m going to burn in hell for kissing you, John?” Thomas asked, the sarcasm in his voice only barely masking the nervousness. The question sent a pang of fear through John’s chest and the thoughts of the wrongness about everything he’d been doing, been thinking, came flooding back. He hurriedly calmed himself, working his fingers through his hair.  
  
     “Do you believe in God, Thomas?”   
  
     “Vaguely.”   
  
     John snorted, for some reason a little annoyed with the answer. “Vaguely?”  
  
     Thomas shrugged. “I believe if there’s a god out there he’d be far too busy with the entirety of the universe to deal with you, or I, or Earth.” John’s eyebrows raised slightly.

 

     “Please, Jefferson, you’re waxing poetic.” Thomas smirked and rolled back over onto his back.    
  


     “Do you believe in God, John?” 

 

     John shrugged uncomfortably. “I believe in the inherent goodness of people.”  
  
     Thomas looked at him with an indiscernible expression and John suddenly felt quite self-conscious. “And you say I’m waxing poetic.” John folded his arms over his chest with a huff and Thomas smiled, pushing himself up onto his elbow and looking down at him. “I was going to say that sounds unlike you but…” Thomas paused and John watched him warily. “That sounds exactly like something you’d say, now that I think about it.” John bit back a smile and waved a hand dismissively.   
  
     “I’m here to sleep Jefferson, not to talk philosophy with you.” 

 

     Thomas gave an amused hum, lying back down. “No, no, we’d be up all night, wouldn’t we?” John smirked back at him.  
  
     “Yes, I do suppose we would.”   
  
     Thomas closed his eyes with a sigh. “I do quite enjoy having you here. Your company is greatly encouraging.” John felt a flutter in his chest at that. “Though,” At Thomas’s continuation, John winced. “I do wish Martha were here with me…” The sheer longing in Thomas’s voice hit John like a stab to the heart and he felt his breathing instantly become more ragged. Oh god, oh god what was he doing? What was he even thinking of doing here with Jefferson, a happily married man, as he was himself? John swallowed, suddenly overcome with a frustrating nausea spawned from guilt and longing. He sat up, prompting Thomas to open one eye. John could see his fingers trembling against the bedsheets and he quickly scrambled out of Thomas’s bed, grabbing his coat and pulling it over his shoulders.  
  
     “John?” John didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond. There was no way to even justify what he was doing, the thoughts he was having, the damnable ways Thomas was making him feel. Not before God, not even before the law. The weight of guilt sat heavily in his chest as he pulled his shoes on, seeing Thomas sit up with a confused, concerned expression in his peripheral. “John,” He repeated, “What are you doing?” John’s throat felt dry as he headed for the door.   
  
     “Something I should have done a long time ago.”   
  
     With that, he yanked the door open, too fast to even try to hear a protest from Thomas, and slammed it behind himself.   
  
     The walk home was a blur. He must have run, actually, because by the time he stood in front of his apartment he was shaking and out of breath, his hands fumbling as he unlocked the door. He hastily lit a candle as he made his way inside, tugging open the drawers of his desk for a piece of parchment. When he’d calmed himself enough to stop the tremors in his hands, he began writing;   
  
      _“Dear Missus Jefferson,”_


	5. Chapter Five

     John’s bed was considerably colder than Thomas’s he’d come to realize. For the first time in a week, he woke up alone, blankets wrapped around him tightly in a desperate attempt to find the warmth he usually found by Thomas’s body. He almost found himself missing the stifling Philadelphia heat as he curled up tighter under his blankets, with no desire to do or think anything at all. He ran his hands over his face, the guilt from the night before never having left him. He slowly sat up, pushing his hair from where it had fallen into his face, blinking as he thought back to the previous night. He’d sent a letter to Jefferson’s wife, politely requesting that she come to Philadelphia, that Thomas simply required her presence to be able to work. His breath shuddered slightly at the thought. Thomas had a wife, he told himself, Thomas had a wife and so did he and god, he loved Abigail more than anything so why, why couldn’t he stop thinking about Thomas as he did? It was starting to wear on him and he realized he was gripping the bed sheets tightly to the point his knuckles were turning white. He let out a breath, rubbing his eyes, exhausted by his own overactive brain.    


     This would make Thomas happy. This would, hopefully, finally get Thomas to write that blasted declaration and John could simply forget about him and get back to focusing on the vote. That was all that mattered. The mystery surrounding his heart be damned, all that mattered was the vote.   
  
     The rest of the week passed in a muddled, grey blur. John went into work with an unwavering scowl on his face, his eyes locked on the empty Virginia table for hours. Every day passed exactly the same, nothing was ever accomplished and the general feeling of hope amongst those who supported him and independence was starting to dissipate. People passed by him warily, his constant scowl keeping most of them at a safe distance. All except for Dickinson, who seemed dead set on provoking him, slyly wandering around Thomas’s usual seat and fixing John with a smug look. It only served to make John feel vaguely sick, and by the time Sunday had rolled around he didn’t want to leave his bed. He’d been perfectly content with the thought of staying in bed all day, even toying with the thought of not returning to work the next morning, when a heavy knock at his door caused him to shoot up. His mind raced, immediately certain that it was Thomas, that he’d come here to hold him and kiss him and- John’s mind blanked at a familiar voice.  
  
     “John?”   
  
     John grimaced. That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. With an inward groan he pushed himself out of bed, hurriedly tying up his hair and opened the door.  
  
     “Franklin. I didn’t think you were capable of being up so early,” He said dryly, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed. Franklin fixed him with a worried look.  
  
     “It’s one in the afternoon, John,” he said quietly.  
  
     John blinked. “Oh.” He swallowed, shifting awkwardly and wishing he had something to do with his hands. “What brings you here then?” Franklin simply scowled at his disheveled state.  
  
     “Get dressed John, we’re going to visit Jefferson.”  
  
     John winced, opening his mouth to argue, yet in a few moments, he found himself dressed and walking down the street beside Franklin, entirely unsure how the man did it. John thought miserably back to his bed, and how he would have given anything to be in it. It had been a week since he’d seen Thomas and he’d left on weird terms. He’d considered sending him a letter, apologizing for his abruptness, but, much like the Virginian, he constantly found himself unable to write. Just holding a quill to paper flooded his mind with a thousand things he wished to say and left him overwhelmed, his head on his desk in defeat. Yet here he was, being dragged into seeing the person he wanted to see both most and least in the world. The dichotomy of it all made his stomach turn and every few minutes he considered just turning around and running back to his apartment, locking the door behind him and never speaking to anyone again. He shook the thoughts from his mind when he found himself approaching Jefferson’s apartment, the surroundings all too warmly familiar. He paused in the crowded street when an odd noise made his ears twitch. Faintly audible over the bustle of the crowd and the cries of various birds, music could be heard, a familiar light humming of violin music from Jefferson’s apartment. John knew the noise well; Thomas had played for him quite a few times during the time he’d stayed with him, and John would consistently chastise him about getting back to work. The noise caused his heart to stir as he made his way up the stairs.   
  
     “Jefferson?” He asked as he knocked on the door. Not awaiting a response he shoved the door open, determined to get this done and over with. The apartment was exactly how he’d remembered it, yet somehow more disheveled. Various coats were strewn over furniture and the floor was utterly coated in crumpled papers, to the point that John could hear them shuffling with every step he took. Papers, quills, even a portable desk were piled on Jefferson’s bed, and John could have sworn he noticed an ink stain on the sheets. He supposed he had to give him props for trying. If Jefferson was surprised at his arrival, he didn’t show it, instead looked up at John with dull eyes, oscillating slowly in his moving chair. He looked even more disheveled than his apartment, entirely unshaven, his hair in a sloppy mess over his shoulders. “Jefferson,” John repeated, glancing quickly around the room for something to look at other than Thomas’s eyes. “Is it finished?” Thomas glared at that and rotated around, clearly not in the mood for John’s lack of manners. John didn’t quite care. He walked around the desk so he could face Thomas again. “You’ve had a whole week, man,” He said through clenched teeth, a dangerous sharpness to his voice, “Is it done?” Thomas looked up at him blankly. “Can I see it?” John hissed.   
  
     Thomas rotated around again, indicating with his bow the various piles of crumpled papers. John bent down and picked up one that looked promising, flattening it out and reading aloud; “There comes a time in the lives of men when it becomes necessary to advance from the subordination in which they have hitherto rem-” This wasn’t the literary prowess he was used to. This wasn’t the skill that often kept him awake at night in both amazement and envy. It frustrated him in a violent way he didn’t quite understand to see the work he’d looked up to so vehemently be reduced to this. “This is terrible,” He said quite frankly. Thomas just stared up at him and if he cared he didn’t show it. “Where’s the rest of it?” Thomas looked at him with an indiscernible expression before gesturing vaguely towards the papers scattered across the floor. John felt some sort of anger rise within him.  
  
     “You mean to say it is not yet finished?” He asked, softly, measuredly, but with an unignorable venom to his voice. Thomas blinked.   
  
     “No sir,” his voice was dull, as if he were tired of John’s presence, or simply just of life itself, “I mean to say that it’s not yet begun.” John’s mouth fell open for a moment before he threw his hands up in front of him, collapsing to the floor besides Thomas’s desk.  
  
     “Good God!” He cried miserably, running his hands over his face. “You’ve had a week, a whole week!” Thomas glared at that. John realized why; he’d been ignoring him for the entire week, too ashamed of himself to even check up on Thomas. He shoved the thoughts aside. He wasn’t here to mend his own sorry heart, he was here to get that blasted declaration. “The entire Earth was created in a week!” Thomas rotated around again, fixing him with a severely annoyed look, that even managed to make John a little self-conscious.  
  
     “Someday you must tell me how you did it.”  
  
     John gaped and would have been offended if he didn’t notice the tiny upwards twitching of Thomas’s lips as he turned away.  
  
     “Disgusting!” John stood up again, leaning over Thomas’s desk. “Look at him, Franklin, Virginia’s most famous lover!” The words came out before he realized what he was saying, and he bit down harshly on his tongue. Thomas only fixed him with a murderous look that seemed to communicate everything John was thinking.   
  
     “Virginia abstains,” Thomas said quietly, and John looked at the ground. God, why did this have to be so difficult? Guilt still sat heavily in John’s stomach, it had been for the last week, and Thomas glaring up at him certainly wasn’t helping. He let out a shuddering breath, wishing he could just tell Thomas what he was thinking, how he was feeling, something to sort all of this out. Only, the problem was he didn’t know how he was feeling. He couldn’t ever put words to it. After a moment of silence, John reached out amicably, putting a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas didn’t respond.   
  
     “Cheer up, Jefferson,” he said with a squeeze to Thomas’s shoulder. He only just realized how much he missed the warmth of Thomas’s body against his skin. “Get out of the dumps, it’ll come out all right, I assure you.” John hesitated at his comforting, familiar tone. He was here on business, he reminded himself. “Now get back to work.” No response. “Franklin,” John called, his eyes still locked on Thomas’s freckles, “Tell him to get back to work.” Thomas looked up at him without any discernible emotion.   
  
     “I think he’s asleep.”   
  
     John grimaced, about to do something about that when the door opened with a rush of warm air. John blinked, unsure what he was expecting at the sight of a woman standing in the door, until his brain slowly, dumbly put his thoughts together. Of course. He’d sent for Thomas’s wife a little over a week ago, it made sense she’d just now be arriving. He didn’t say anything, just stood there with his mouth open as Thomas shot up from his desk, pulling away from John. John hesitated, his hand still slightly raised, unsure of what to do without the warmth of Thomas’s body. He swallowed, forcibly dropped his hand to his side as he watched Thomas embrace his wife lovingly, a painful longing panging in his chest.   
  
     He’d sent for her, he’d wanted this to happen, so he didn’t understand why it hurt so much to see Thomas so close with someone else. She was his wife, dammit, he shouldn’t be feeling this damnable envy for her! He forced himself to close his mouth, going to stand by Franklin as he watched them incredulously.   
  
     “John, who is she?” Franklin whispered.  
  
     “His wife.” John hoped the wavering in his voice went unnoticed. Franklin fixed him with an odd look and John feared that it hadn’t. John thought for a moment of introducing himself, but the sickness of guilt just made him want to hide somewhere. How the hell could he look this woman in the face after the thoughts he’d had of her husband? How the hell could he look his own wife in the face after the thoughts he’d had of another man? Franklin must have noticed the numb unresponsiveness on John’s face as he guided him outside, shutting the door behind them.  
  
     “Come along, John,” He said cheerfully. John blinked.   
  
     “Come along where?” He protested, “There’s work to be done.” Franklin looked at him, and for the millionth time that day, John regretted speaking.  
  
     “Obviously.”   
  
     John felt slightly sick to his stomach and vaguely lightheaded. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and awkwardly asked Franklin to accompany him out to lunch. Franklin gave an excuse that John instantly recognized as some odd sexual endeavor, then turned around and abandoned him on Jefferson’s steps. John sat down slowly, staring off at a far wall, wondering how the hell he’d come to this. Sitting outside Jefferson’s apartment, waiting for him to finish, wishing he’d never called upon his wife in the first place, wishing Thomas would just come out and hold him. John found himself covering his eyes with his hands as he gritted his teeth, wondering how he’d managed to become quite so pathetic, wondering why the damnable feelings in his heart had reduced him to this.   


_____________________

 

     For the next few days, time seemed to pass more slowly than ever, dragging on painfully as John sat in congress day after day. Dickinson, upon receiving no reaction, slowly got tired of provoking him, and eventually, for the most part, everyone simply started avoiding him. John didn’t mind; he had nothing to say to anyone. All he could think about was Thomas and how much he regretted not giving in to his heart. He’d taken to staying late at the statehouse, not moving from his seat until long after the sun had set. The few people who still might have considered him a friend occasionally would invite him out to dinner, but he’d quietly turn them down, preferring to wallow alone in his own misery. He was beginning to annoy even himself.   
  
     He’d finally managed to work up the energy to walk himself home, long after the sun had gone down. The puddles in the streets reflected the coppery glow of the street lamps and he winced, the color only making him see Thomas’s hair, Thomas’s freckles reflected in the water. He stopped at the corner when his legs very nearly took him down the wrong street, his body still accustomed to returning to Thomas’s apartment after a long night. Grimacing, he forced himself to go the opposite way, determined to return to his cold and lonely room and to repeat the process every night until he could finally leave the blasted city. He’d been lost in his thoughts, but upon returning to his apartment he saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.   
  
     Jefferson was sitting on his front steps, hunched over the portable writing desk in his lap and scribbling lazily on a piece of parchment. John swallowed, entirely shocked at the sight, and lingered a couple feet from the man, unsure of what to do. He had no idea what Thomas was doing there, why Thomas even wanted to see him. After a few moments of silence, John nervously cleared his throat and Thomas’s head shot up, locking eyes with John. Thomas blinked, before a relieved expression appeared on his face, leaning back slightly against the steps.   
  
     “I was wondering where the hell you were, John,” he said quietly, looking up at John with those damnably handsome eyes. John couldn’t bring himself to look away and he supposed, deep down, he was glad for it. He ran his tongue over his lips, searching for what to say. At the long silence, Thomas sighed and stood up with a groan, tucking his desk and parchment under his arm. “Are you going to invite me inside?”  
  
     John just nodded numbly, fishing his key from his pocket and easing the door open, suddenly finding himself embarrassed at the state of his apartment. His collection of Thomas’s works were scattered haphazardly across the floor and he hoped to god Thomas wouldn’t notice them. He lit a few candles, covering the room in a flickering orange glow as Thomas sat himself awkwardly down on the bed. John nervously tried to remedy the worst of the mess, stacking papers into loose piles and grabbing books from off of his bed. A quiet, breathy laugh from Thomas caused him to whip around, only to see the Virginian with another stack of papers in his hands, leafing through them lazily. John blushed heavily as Thomas looked up at him.  
  
     “You’re a fan of my work, John?” He asked with a light humor in his voice. John bit down on the inside of his cheek and returned to his tidying. 

  
     “Of course I am. Why else do you think I demanded you write the damned thing?” John looked up for a moment. “Speaking of the damned thing-”  
  
     An exasperated sigh from Thomas. “No John, it’s not finished yet.” John finally allowed himself to give a weak smile.   
  
     “Thought so.”  
  
     Thomas looked over at him pointedly. “John, sit. You have company.” The corners of John’s lips twitched into a grimace, but he obeyed, sitting down on the bed next to Thomas. He wondered if the bed was even big enough for Thomas to lie down in. He hated to admit how he thought of that every single time he went to bed, without fail. The two sat in awkward silence until John spoke.  
  
     “And how is missus Jefferson?” He asked with an odd inflection in his voice. A knowing smirk twitched on Thomas’s lips.  
  
     “Quite well. She left last night.”  
  
     “Ah.” John’s mouth fell open when Thomas’s hand came to rest on his thigh. He looked up at Thomas with wide eyes as the Virginian stared out of the window.  
  
     “Thomas-”  
  
     “I must admit, Mr. Adams,” he cut him off, “I’ve missed your presence terribly.” John looked away feeling a warmth on his face and in his chest. For the first time in far too long, the weight of guilt in his stomach started to lessen.  
  
     “Why else do you think I sent for her?” He asked hoarsely. Thomas jerked his head to look at him, looking vaguely annoyed.  
  
     “No, John,” He said firmly, “I’ve missed _your_ presence.” Thomas then looked away, a blush on his cheeks hiding his freckles. “I’ve missed our talks. I’ve missed having you in my bed.” It was quiet, shuddering, and John felt something stirring inside of him at Thomas’s raw vulnerability. John put his hands in his lap, staring down at them, wishing that for once they, or he for that matter, could do something useful.  
  
     “You have a wife, Jefferson. And so do I. And I care for her very deeply.”  
  
     “I do,” Thomas conceded. “And I also care for my wife very deeply.” He looked down at John, slowly rubbing his hand down his thigh. “But I also care for you. And I don’t understand why loving someone means I have to limit what I feel for another.”  
  
     “I am a man, Jefferson.” John’s voice and his resolve were weakening.  
  
     “That you are.”   
  
     John then looked up at him with wide eyes. “Do you really?” His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse and quiet. “Care for me, I mean.” Thomas gave him a bittersweet smile.   
  
     “I don’t think I would have kissed you if I didn’t.”   
  
     “Fair enough.” Thomas then laughed bitterly, and John could see the start of tears in his eyes. Thomas hurriedly wiped them away as John put an arm around his waist, resting his head against Thomas’s ribcage. John gave a shaky breath. “By all accounts, I shouldn’t be as attracted to you as I am.” Thomas put his arm around John’s shoulders and John relished the man’s warmth, even in the already insufferable heat.  
  
     “Is it really such a bad thing?”  
  
     “I don’t know,” John admitted, “I certainly hope not.” John swallowed, watching his chest rise and fall with labored breaths. “I’ve felt so guilty lately…” Thomas raised an eyebrow.  
  
     “What for?”  
  
     “For how I feel about you.”  
  
     “And how do you feel about me?”  
  
     John swallowed, his face flushed with a mixture of affection and embarrassment. “Are you really going to make me say it?”  
  
     Thomas gave him a teasing look. “I’d certainly like to hear it.” John gave a shaky breath, letting his gaze drop to the candle glowing faintly on his nightstand.  
  
     “Lately I’ve simply been unable to get you off my mind,” He admitted, “At first I thought I simply appreciated your talents but…” Embarrassment twisted his stomach and made his heart start pounding in his chest. “It turns out I simply appreciate you. Your very presence gives me the same happiness Abigail does… I love your voice, and your smile, and-” He swallowed, not wanting to embarrass himself. Thomas only smiled wider. “I see your eyes when I close my own. I see your obnoxiously red hair in the streetlamps.”  
  
     Thomas scowled. “It is not obnoxious.”   
  
     “Every time I touch your skin I feel like I’m burning.”  
  
     “And you call me poetic.”   
  
     “Shut up.”  
  
     With a calm exhalation, Thomas fell back into the bed, wrapping his arms around John and holding him tightly to his chest. John closed his eyes, reveling in the sound of Thomas’s heartbeat, his warmth, those ink stained hands pressing against his back.   
  
     “Do you love me, John?” Thomas’s voice was distinct against the silence that blanketed the room. John, for the first time in far too long, felt a steeled resolve in his chest.  
  
“I think I may.”  
  
_________________________  
  
     The sunlight was blinding when John woke up the next morning, realizing he’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before. He blinked his eyes open, grimacing into the light, only to be hit with the sudden realization that he was alone in his bed. He shot up in a panic, with a fear he hadn’t felt many times before in his life, glancing around the room as if his life depended on it. He couldn’t begin to describe the relief he felt upon seeing Thomas busy at his desk, his quill scratching against paper as he leaned his chin in his hand. Upon hearing John moving, Thomas turned around a small smile on his face. He held up a few sheets of paper. John blinked at him.  
  
     “It’s finished, John.” It took John a few moments to realize what he meant, his brain still foggy with sleep. It took a few more moments for him to realize it didn’t matter.  
  
     “I don’t care, Thomas,” He said dully. Thomas gave him an uncharacteristic look of shock and disbelief as John rubbed his eyes. Thomas opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off with a yawn. “Come back to bed.” The gape on Thomas’s face slowly shifted to a grin as he let the paper fall back onto the desk, striding quickly over to John and falling upon him in a kiss.  



	6. Chapter Six

     John gritted his teeth as he paced the length of the room, nearly unable to think over the cacophonous noise of argument from his fellow congressmen. Everyone was shouting over each other, all believing they had something of import to contribute and all determined to contribute it. It had been going on for two full days at that point and John was starting to feel his sane state of mind abandon him. He wrung his hands as he paced, every word shouted out making him twitch. Two entire days of constant, fruitless, ceaseless bickering over the declaration. John couldn’t recall a single paragraph that hadn’t been contested in some way, shape or form by that point and it filled his brain with thoughts of smashing his head into the wall repeatedly. Somehow, by his indomitable force of will, he resisted. He’d could admit that he’d been expecting this; he knew that most of these insufferable men would have something to say, something pointless to contribute just so they could experience the pride of contribution. What John hadn’t expected though, was Thomas’s utter sufferance of it all. The man didn’t seem to even care what they did to his masterpiece, he simply sat there and took it. John couldn’t understand why Thomas was just allowing this to happen; John seemed to be the only one willing to stand up for his work.  
  
     His eyes crossed the room to where Thomas sat, staring blankly at the far wall, entirely unaffected by what went on around him. The secretary had long since stopped even asking Thomas for his approval of the changes, no one ever expecting the man to stand up for his own work. The thought only served to make John more enraged, more bewildered as he paced the length of the chamber, Franklin occasionally beckoning for him to calm down. John bit the inside of his cheek as he paused in place, watching Thomas as he sat there numbly, looking vaguely harrowed and uneasy. At another outburst of arguments, the sound of a gavel slamming against a desk quickly quietened the room, shouts reduced to frustrated whispers. Seemingly as exhausted with the whole process as John was, the president called for a recess, to which the men all belligerently agreed. With a sigh of exhaustion, John moved towards Thomas, caught off guard when, in a flash of copper, the Virginian forcefully shoved passed him, striding out of the room with his head ducked towards the floor. John blinked, unsure what had happened, leaning against the window sill with his lips parted slightly. He stared at the door in dull confusion until he felt something strike sharply against his shin. Jumping slightly with a cry of pain and indignation, he looked up at Franklin, who’d hit him with his walking stick. John gave the man a pained, questioning look.  
  
     “Go after him, John,” the man said forcefully, as if it should have been obvious. Perhaps it should have been. John still felt fairly nervous, stressed by the whole affair. He tugged on the lapels of his coat, trying to find the courage that came so easily when defending Thomas’s work. It seemed to fail at the premise of standing up to the man himself. Slowly, he strode towards the door, no one paying him any attention as he passed, and stepped out into the quiet of the hall. The muffling of the noise from the chamber immediately relaxed him and he gave a soft sigh as he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, before he set out looking for Thomas.   
  
     It didn’t take too long, as Thomas’s bright red hair would have caught anyone’s eye. The man was seated on the stairs, the light of the afternoon sun illuminating the dust around him, causing his copper hair to shine in the most beautiful way, but hunched over with his face in his hands. He wasn’t moving at all and with his absurdly long legs he looked almost comical, but John felt his breath catch in his chest at the sight of him, a concerned grimace contorting his face. He’d seen the man in a sorry state before, unshaven, wearing the same clothes as the night before, deciding to drink in the middle of the day; but this was something different, and his stomach twisted in pity, seeing the man collapse in on himself like this. He stood there, silent for a moment, abandoned by his confidence.   
  
     “Thomas?” He asked with an uncharacteristic, tentative softness to his voice. At the disruption of the silence, Thomas’s head jerked up and he met John with wide eyes. They were red-rimmed and sort of glazed over; he hadn’t been crying but he looked like he was about to. With a sigh, John headed up the stairs, watching Thomas hurriedly collect himself, twisting his fingers through his hair as if nothing had happened at all. John sat down beside him so that their knees barely brushed each other, looking up at Thomas with gentle concern. Thomas wouldn’t look at him, just stared off down the stairs at nothing. Still not sure how to deal with the man’s unresponsiveness, John placed a hand on his thigh comfortingly. Thomas merely blinked. “Thomas,” John tried again, hoping to mask the frustration in his voice with enough forced patience, “Are you okay?” Thomas just gave him a limp shrug, letting his hands fall uselessly into his lap, and a shuddering breath caused John’s eyes to flick to his ribcage for a moment. Thomas’s lips parted slightly as if he wanted to speak. When he hesitated, John gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze.   
  
     “I wrote it for you, you know.” Thomas’s voice cut the silence in a forced monotone way, as if it took all his self-control to keep his voice from wavering. Another shuddering breath and he covered his face again with his hands as John fixed him with another confused, concerned look. John swallowed, entirely unsure what to make of the whole situation. Not entirely sure what Thomas had meant. As he ran his hands down his face, Thomas’s eyes momentarily met John’s, his face clouded with an immeasurable sadness. The look sent a pang of hurt in John’s chest before Thomas gave another sigh, trying again. “The declaration. I wrote it for you.” John simply blinked, which seemed to frustrate the Virginian.   
  
     “What do you mean, Tom?” He tried, his voice laced with hesitation. Thomas’s face contorted with frustration and he gripped the step he sat on until his knuckles went white. John would have found his anger endearing if he hadn’t been so worried about him. Thomas suddenly gave a forceful gesture in the direction of the chamber, his fingers trembling in the air.  
  
     “I wrote it for you,” his voice was wavering; he was losing his resolve. “I wrote it as a testament to my love for you and-” His voice cracked and his breath hitched in his chest. His hands resumed covering his face as he seemed to collapse back in on himself. John instinctively pressed a comforting hand to his back. “And they’re ruining it.” Thomas’s meaning clicked into place in John’s brain and he felt both a wave of pain for Thomas’s sadness and an odd sort of warm, bitter happiness to have such love presented to him. He hurriedly wiped the small smile from his face, shifting closer to Thomas and putting an arm around his broad shoulders.   


     “Oh, Tom…” He said softly as he felt the man start to tremble beneath him. He was warm, and John wanted nothing more than to embrace him then and there, but his cautiousness held him back from it.   
  
     “I worked so hard…” Thomas mumbled despondently into his hands. “I made it perfect and they’re-” His hands fell from his face, revealing an expression that hit John with a stab of fear. Thomas bit down on his lower lip harshly, his mouth set into a firm line, raw anger eminating from the man. “They’re mangling it.” John felt a slight pang of annoyance, as much as he empathized.

  
     “Why don’t you ever defend your work?” He asked, trying not to sound too frustrated with him.   
  
     Thomas was silent for a moment, then he croaked miserably, “I’m not brave like you, John.” John felt another wave of pity for the man and gave his shoulder a squeeze, letting his other hand come to rest on Thomas’s knee.  
  
     “It’s alright Thomas,” John tried softly, “It’ll be over soon.” Thomas’s face fell to a grimace.

  
     “What does it matter when it’s over? It’s already ruined,” He moaned with a lazy shrug. “Why do they get to change it? It’s not for them. It was never written for them.” John felt a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his lips at Thomas’s petulance.  
  
     “Don’t forget what it was originally for, Tom. Don’t forget why we’re here,” John reminded him. Thomas fixed him with an odd look.   
  
     “I don’t care about why we’re here. I care about you, John. I wrote it for you.” It was firm if a bit miserable, and John squeezed Thomas tighter to his side.   
  
     “I know, Tom, I know.” Thomas went quiet again for a long while. Worry tugged at John’s heart. “Thomas?” He asked quietly. Thomas didn’t respond immediately but looked at him, a rare fire in his eyes as he stared into John’s own. John felt slightly intimidated at the raw intensity, which was only exacerbated when Thomas suddenly gripped his shoulders. The two men simply stared at each other for a moment in tense silence, neither one wanting to break the eye contact.   
  
     “Did you love it, John?” Thomas asked, finally breaking the silence, still staring deeply, intrusively into John’s eyes. “Was it good enough?”   
  
     “It was more than good enough, Thomas,” John said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was a masterpiece.” John then gave a shaky smile. “Everything you write is a masterpiece.” Thomas returned the smile for a moment, letting his grip on John’s shoulders weaken until his hands slid down to hold John’s. Thomas swallowed, his eyes falling to his lap.  
  
     “And… and me. Am I good enough?”   
  
     John snorted, a hint of nervousness mingling with the amusement in his voice. “What kind of question is that?”  
  
     “Answer it.” 

  
     The smirk on John’s lips twitched in his concern for the sadness on Thomas’s face and he slowly removed his hands from the other man’s grip to cup his cheeks with them. Thomas’s face in his hands, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against his, his hesitation holding him back for a mere moment. Swallowing, steeling the resolve in his chest, he leaned forward again, this time kissing him deeper, more firmly, until he felt the corners of Thomas’s lips move against his in a smile. John’s hands moved down from Thomas’s face, caressing down his chest and coming to rest on his hips as his weight against him pushed Thomas against the banister. He felt Thomas’s arms slide around his waist and pull him closer, Thomas’s tongue brushing against his own. The sensation made John’s face flush red and, despite the desires of his heart, he pulled away, panting slightly for lack of breath. The sight of Thomas’s dazed, smiling face made him smile too as the two stared at each other for a moment.   
  
     “You didn’t answer the question, John,” Thomas broke the silence. John’s chest was still rising and falling with labored breaths. He couldn’t quite manage to put his thoughts together, his brain flooded with thoughts of Thomas, Thomas’s freckles, his lips, his skin. John swallowed, before pressing another kiss to Thomas’s lips, then his jaw, his neck.   
  
     “You’re more than good enough, Thomas,” he whispered breathlessly as Thomas’s cheek pressed against his. “You’re a masterpiece.” Thomas gave a breathy laugh against John’s ear, squeezing tighter around his waist. “And I love you for it. For you.”  
  
     “You’re waxing poetic again, John.” A grimace and a smile both fought for dominance on John’s face. He settled for the smile.  
  
     “Oh shut up.” 

 

     The pair sat in their familiar, companionable silence, their hands loosely clutching each other for a long while, John’s head resting exhaustedly on Thomas’s shoulder. They both knew they’d have to return at some point, someone would have to at least try to stand up for Thomas’s masterpiece while the entire world felt hellbent on destroying it. On destroying them. For the time being, though, they sat, in love with the rare sort of peace they could only find in each other’s presence.  
  
     The days continued to pass in hellish slowness, and every time John thought the Congress couldn’t manage to find another part of the declaration to argue about, they did. Thomas returned to his usual despondency as tensions in the room only rose, as Rutledge gave his sickening, impassioned display, and as, all at once, everyone seemed to abandon John. First the South walked out, then the North fell to apathy, his friends assured him that it was _over_ , he’d _lost_ , there was _nothing he could do_. More arguments ensued, orders were given and Thomas looked down at him with an apathetic hopelessness as John told him to persuade Rutledge. To try. John Adams liked to believe he was above pleading, but he knew that wasn’t true.   
  
     Dejected, exhausted, and wallowing in self-pity, John soon found himself sitting alone on the corner of one of the tables in the dark, empty room, all the candles but the one next to him extinguished. Someone appeared in the statehouse at some point, John recalled. He’d made some nervous speech about judgment or service or something, and changed the placard for his colony to the ‘yea’ column. John supposed the man thought he was being profound. He was too far gone at that point to care; he knew that one vote wouldn’t save their cause, wouldn’t save their country, wouldn’t save him from the gallows. He couldn’t even bring himself to fear the thought. His eyes fixed on dark nothingness, he sat alone for hours, numb to his own thoughts. He barely even heard it when someone else entered the chamber slowly, tentatively, then gave a soft sigh upon approaching him. John blinked, looking up into familiar blue eyes, familiar copper hair that reflected the flickering glow of the single candle.   
  
     “I was about to go home,” Thomas said quietly, “but I realized you were probably still here.”  
  
     Sitting on the table, John came up to Thomas’s neck rather than his chest, which he found oddly pleasurable despite himself. Thomas placed a hand on his thigh, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. John wasn’t sure he even had the energy to speak, but eventually he opened his mouth.  
  
     “How was Rutledge?” Thomas’s exhausted expression could have given him all the answer he needed.  
  
     “He humored me,” Thomas shrugged, “Not quite sure what that accomplished, if anything.” Closing his eyes, John placed his hand atop Thomas’s, still relishing the tingling he felt when Thomas’s skin touched his own. With a shaky breath, Thomas’s forehead gently touched against John’s, taking his other hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. John squeezed his eyes shut tighter, simply waiting for it all to be over at that point. Thomas’s voice tentatively broke the silence. “What are you going to do, John?”   
  
     John’s eyes flicked open to see that Thomas’s were still closed. “Me?” It came out as a nervous whisper. Thomas slowly pulled away from him, opening his eyes.  
  
     “You,” he confirmed. John felt a sudden flash of anger, then fear, then a sickening hopelessness. He looked up at Thomas desperately, his fingers trembling from both fear and exhaustion. “You’re the one we all look to. You’re our champion.” The thought filled John’s chest with the familiar weight of guilt he thought he’d been rid of.  
  
     “Why me?” He croaked, not quite caring about the tears that were welling up in his eyes. “Haven’t I done enough?” It was a sharp hiss, he knew if he tried to raise his voice it would fail. _“Good god, haven’t I done enough?”_ He was starting to sound desperate and he knew it, his tears finding their way to his voice. Thomas quickly pulled him into his arms and John buried his face in the crook of Thomas’s neck. “I’m so _tired…_ ” The collar of Thomas’s coat was dampened by John’s tears as they rolled down his cheeks, his shoulders convulsing with silent sobs. “I’m so _tired, Thomas.”_ Thomas rubbed slow circles across John’s back, pressing gentle kisses to his neck that he hoped would comfort him better than anything he could try, and fail, to say.  
  
     “Then come home, John,” Thomas said softly, and John could feel his breath tickling his ear. “Come home with me.” John sniffed, suddenly finding himself self-conscious, wishing he could hide the evidence of his tears.   
  
     “What good will it do, Tom?” He whispered into Thomas’s neck. “We’re going to fail. They’re going to destroy us and-”   
  


     He was cut off as Thomas squeezed his hand sharply. “No, John,” He said as he pulled away, fixing the disconsolate man with a firm look, that same rare fire and raw intensity in his eyes as before. “No matter what happens, John,” the breathy shakiness of his voice betrayed the passion in his eyes, “No matter what becomes of this country, nothing will ever destroy my love for you. Nothing can ever take away what we have in each other, John, nothing.” The force in his tone reminded John of the admiration he had for the man, for his way of saying in a single sentence what John couldn’t manage in twenty. Slowly, ever so gradually, the faint light of hope within him returned, the light that he could always manage to find in Thomas’s eyes when he couldn’t manage it himself. It returned, bringing a familar warmth inside his chest that he’d come to instinctively associate with Thomas’s presence, with his voice, with his love. “Now come home, John,” Thomas whispered, and John finally bowed his head in submission to his lover’s wish. Tears pricked in his eyes again, though he was no longer ashamed of them, and a trembling smile eventually appeared on his lips.  
  
     “Alright, Tom, alright.”  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

     An unusually refreshing breeze blew across John’s face as he gazed out over the city. The sky was lightly tinted with the orange-pink hues of sunset, and for the first time in months, the weather in Philadelphia seemed almost tolerable. It was still slightly humid, but a soft wind occasionally tousled his hair, which had sat loosely on his shoulders, barely kept together by a dark ribbon. John leaned out over the banister of the bell tower; he’d taken to coming up there whenever he needed time to think or simply a bit of quiet. The entire city, as well as his problems, seemed entirely trivial when stared down upon from such a high vantage point. Nothing seemed real from up there, and for some reason, John found the thought rather comforting. He watched as clouds floated lazily in the twilight above him, faintly illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. The faint sounds of horses and their corresponding carriages floated on the wind, but other than that, the city was blanketed in silence. He watched as the streetlamps slowly flicked on below, the last harbinger of nightfall. He closed his eyes and was resting his head on his arms, weary from simply existing, when he heard slow, measured footsteps of someone coming up the stairs below him. His ears twitched at every familiar creak of the stairs, then silence. The person behind him paused for a moment, then strode across the small area to where John leaned against the banister, and John felt the tension leave his shoulders at a familiar hand on his back. He blinked his eyes open, looking up at the man beside him. John couldn’t bring himself to say anything, he was far too tired. Thomas, quite unlike himself, filled the conversational void.   
  
     “People are wondering where you are, John,” He said quietly, gazing out over the same city, the same sky. John blinked, finally picking his head up from his arms and leaning against the banister, gripping it firmly with his hands.  
  
     “Oh?” Perhaps his brain simply wasn’t cooperating with him, or he really was that exhausted, but he couldn’t find it within himself to orchestrate a meaningful response. Thomas slowly slid his hand up and down John’s back, his thumb caressing the fabric of his coat.  
  
     “You have a very… _distinct_ presence, John,” Thomas said slowly, “People tend to notice when you’re not there.” That brought a slight smile to John’s face and he looked down at the streets below in an attempt to hide it. Thomas’s hand stopped, then slid around to John’s ribcage, and he took a half-step towards the man beside him so that their hips grazed against each other. John rested his head under Thomas’s arm, letting his eyes fall shut once more. After a few more moments of comfortable, blessed silence, Thomas spoke up again. “What are you doing up here, anyway?” He fixed John with a confused look, gazing down into the man’s disheveled raven hair. “They’re all out celebrating you. Your victory.”  
  
     “Our victory,” John corrected him. Thomas gave a half-shrug, his fingers tracing along John’s ribs. Even through his waistcoat, the contact gave John the same thrilled tingling sensation that it had weeks ago. John then felt Thomas’s lips against the top of his head for all too brief a moment.  
  
     “You did most of the fighting, John. You’re still our champion, you know.” John gave a dry smirk into Thomas’s side.   
  
     “I’m no one’s champion, Jefferson.” He slid his arm around Thomas until his hand came to rest on the Virginian’s hip, and gave it a gentle squeeze, signifying he wasn’t going to argue the matter further. Thomas gave a quiet huff, but returned to his usual silence, his cheek coming to rest on John’s head. John then opened his eyes, struck by a sudden notion, only to feel a bit inexplicably sad at the disappearance of the sun and the blanketing of the sky in darkness. He gently nudged Thomas’s side with his finger, to which the Virginian gave him a slightly annoyed glance. “And anyway,” he started, deciding to revive their argument, “It’s your declaration that’s going to live on in posterity, you know.” Thomas looked at him with no discernable emotion but that comforting sincerity in his eyes that John had come to rely on.  
  
     “Maybe to you.”   
  
     John gave a shrug, nodding his agreement. “Well, yes, certainly to me, more than anyone.” He removed his head from Thomas’s side, looking up at him with firmness in his eyes yet a loving smile on his lips. “But don’t sell it short. Or yourself, for that matter.” Thomas returned his smile, albeit with a faint hint of cynicism. He then leaned down, briefly kissed John’s lips, and looked at him again.  
  
     “I could tell you the same thing, Mr. Adams.” John’s eyebrows raised at that, but he just shook his head, returning his gaze to the streetlamps and his head to Thomas’s chest. “This is all because of you, John,” Thomas continued, “You deserve to be remembered.” John felt another pang of affection for the man and gently squeezed his hip. He would be lying if he tried to convince Thomas he didn’t care to be remembered either way; John liked to believe he was not a vain man, but facts could be such stubborn things. He gazed up at the sky, noticing the faint scattering of stars that had slowly begun to appear. His eyes then flicked from the stars to Thomas’s eyes and he wasn’t quite sure which was more beautiful.  
  
     “You sir,” John said quietly, “Have just authored what is certain to be the most celebrated document of our time. Of our country.” A smirk twitched to his lips. “Have a little pride, man.”   
  
     “I’m proud of you.”   
  
     John felt his face flush red and he gave a frustrated huff, resting his head back on Thomas’s chest. He could still hear the faintest laughter from the man and he allowed himself a smile, putting his other arm around Thomas’s waist and resting it on top of his hand on his hip. A long, loving silence followed, Thomas’s hand gently rubbing up and down John’s back as the stars slowly became more visible in the night sky.   
  
     “It’s still so hard to believe,” Thomas looked down at him as John started speaking again, “That it’s done. It’s all over.”   
  
     “I believe that it’s only just beginning, John.” John gave a shrug, nodding in half-agreement.  
  
     “Well, yes. But all of this-” He gestured out to the statehouse, to Philadelphia, “Our job is done.” He swallowed, letting his hand fall limply to his side again. “I’m not quite sure where we go from here.”  
  
     “‘We’ as in this country, or as in you and I?” Asked Thomas.  
  
     “Both.”   
  
     Thomas looked at him and John could feel the man tense beside him. A soft sigh from Thomas and he gazed out over the city once more. John pressed his cheek into Thomas’s chest, closing his eyes to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I suppose we go home,” Thomas said quietly. Home sounded wonderful to John; home to Abigail, to his children, to his farm and everything he held dear. Almost everything. The weight of what went undiscussed sat heavily between the two men, and the only noise that was heard was the gentle rolling of wind across the city. John missed his home dearly and his missed his family to the point it made him ache, yet the thought of returning made him hold Thomas all the closer to him. He made a conscious effort to control the wavering of his voice as he spoke up again.  
  
     “I do suppose you’d be relieved to see your wife again, wouldn’t you, Tom?” Thomas didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the ever-evolving expanse of stars.  
  
     “I would. And I suppose you’d feel the same.”   
  
     “I would,” he agreed. It was sincere, yet John felt slightly sick with the weight of all of the things he wanted to say. Still, he focused himself on Thomas’s heartbeat, on his warmth and hugged him tighter, so desperately unwilling to let go of him again. After a long silence, something inside of him weakened and he found himself trembling, Thomas’s arms draped around his shoulders. He’d blame it on the temperature, he told himself, as it was admittedly colder than it had been in months. He doubted Thomas would believe that, though. Biting down on his lip, he then looked up at Thomas with wide eyes, his words caught in his throat. Thomas met his gaze calmly, with a reassuring grip on his shoulder. John could hear the wavering of his own breath before he finally broke the silence. “This isn’t the end of it, is it, Tom?” He asked, his voice betraying his emotions. “This isn’t the end of us? We aren’t just going to go our separate ways and act like none of this ever happened?” He was starting to sound more panicked, more emotional than he would have liked. Thomas simply fixed him with his usual measured gaze. He blinked, looking to the stars before speaking.  
  
     “John,” Thomas said quietly, not facing him, “I thought you would have realized by now that you are far too important to me for something like that to happen.” John swallowed back the pain that rose in his throat and nodded into Thomas’s chest. John supposed he was just being a bit pathetic, but some part of him felt relieved to speak his fears.  
  
     “And… you don’t believe that this is… _wrong,_ somehow?” His words left a bad taste on his tongue and he couldn’t look up at Thomas until the taller man tilted his chin upwards with his fingertips and forced him to. Thomas’s face was darkened by a stony expression that made John feel suddenly ashamed of himself. Ashamed of the guilt that had never quite left him.  
  
     “John…” Thomas said quietly, taking a moment to find the right words, “I know nothing more surely than that I love you with my entire heart, and if someone is going to tell me that that’s somehow _wrong…”_ His eyebrows furrowed over frustrated eyes and he jerked his hand back to his side. “Then I simply don’t care to hear it!” His voice rose slightly in his determination and John finally couldn’t help but smile. There was truly nothing he loved more than being on the receiving end of the passion that Thomas hid so artfully.  
  
     “Alright, alright, Tom,” he conceded, and Thomas gave a soft huff, slipping his hand down to John’s shoulder. John’s lips parted with a question, but he blushed and looked down at his shoes. Thomas gave his shoulder a questioning squeeze and John bit the inside of his cheek before sheepishly asking, “And you promise you’ll always feel that way?” A smirk twitched to Thomas’s lips.  
  
     “I can’t imagine a reason I wouldn’t.”  
  
     “What if we never see each other again?”   
  
     Thomas fixed him with a pained look that quickly changed to firm determination. “That won’t happen, John.” John nodded, Thomas’s determination bolstering his own.  
  
     “Alright,” He wasn’t sure if he believed it entirely, or if he simply believed that things couldn’t be the same as they were, as they’d been, but he decided he’d rather delude himself into happiness than face the pain of reality. Of course, it wasn’t truly deluding if Thomas was here, right now, in his arms, he reasoned. Another brisk wind tousled John’s hair and he hugged himself closer to Thomas. He heard another quiet laugh from the man as Thomas laced his fingers through John’s hair before placing a kiss to the top of his head.  
  
     “Come home, John,” he said quietly, and John wasn’t quite sure if it was a plea or a command. “If you stay out here any longer you’ll catch a cold.” John snorted at that, entirely unwilling to believe it was possible to catch a cold in July, in Philadelphia for that matter, but he yielded to Thomas’s request and took his hand in his own as he headed down the stairs and along the familiar route he’d traveled every night for the weeks prior.  
  
     They’d just turned a corner, still hand in hand, only about a block away from Thomas’s apartment when Thomas stopped dead in his tracks beside a streetlamp. John was jerked back by the frozen weight of the Virginian and gave him a concerned look over his shoulder. Upon realizing that Thomas had no desire to move from the spot which he’d rooted himself, John turned around, staring up at him with questioning concern. The sunset glow of the streetlamp still filled John with the same adoration as it flickered against Thomas’s hair, embracing the man’s face in a warm halo of light and causing the freckles scattered across his cheeks to blaze like the stars in the sky above him. John could feel that same sunset warmth in his heart as Thomas’s eyes met his, filled with the same intense desire he’d come to know so well in himself. He’d parted his lips to ask a pointless, fleeting question when Thomas pushed him firmly up against the streetlamp, gripping his shoulders with the hidden strength John had discovered long before.    
  
     Thomas’s hands slid from his shoulders to his waist and John’s eyes widened in astonishment for a mere moment before Thomas leaned in to kiss him, their lips crashing together until Thomas softened against him, nothing but warmth and a tangible love. John let his eyes fall shut at the feeling of Thomas’s tongue against his lips, then against his teeth, and he couldn’t help but moan against Thomas’s lips as the taller man slid his fingers up John’s waistcoat. Thomas’s other hand fumbled with the button on his collar and John, his tongue still against Thomas’s teeth, brought his hand up to catch Thomas’s wrist. Parting, somewhat unwillingly, from Thomas’s lips with a gasp of breath, John looked up at him with a sincere concern.   
  
     “Thomas,” a breathless, desperate whisper, “ _Someone will see us…_ ” John’s chest rose and fell with labored breaths and he noticed that Thomas’s was as well. Thomas’s cheeks were flushed red with both passion and breathlessness as he leaned over John, filling him with a slight envy at his immense height.   
  
     “I don’t care, John.” John wanted to scoff at Thomas’s hard-headed recklessness, but he found the man’s passion all the more endearing as he trailed a hand down the Virginian’s chest.  
  
     “I do,” he said quietly, but firmly, and in a moment he looked up, locking eyes with Thomas. “Take me home. Do it properly.” Thomas’s slightly bewildered expression quickly twitched into a grin as he took John’s hand with a forceful nod, leading John swiftly, purposefully towards his apartment.  
  
______________________________

 

     It was cold when John woke up, the first rays of the sun making themselves known through the curtains, and he pulled the blankets up to his chin. It was unusually cold, he realized, and, blinking his eyes open, he noticed it was probably due to the fact he’d been stripped of his shirt during the night. Upon further investigation, which caused him to flush in embarrassment, he’d been stripped of his breeches as well. John hugged the blankets tighter around himself and shifted closer to the still-sleeping man beside him. He rested his head comfortably on top of Thomas’s chest, placing a hand gently on the man’s waist and pressing a line of kisses to his skin. It wasn’t long until Thomas began stirring beneath him, his hand sliding up John’s back and into his hair. John shivered slightly with Thomas’s fingers tracing faintly across his skin. Looking up at his face, John noticed Thomas still hadn’t opened his eyes, as if he were trying to fight back consciousness as long as possible; trying to hold on to what they had as long as he could. Perhaps he could stop time if he simply refused to acknowledge it.   
  
     Still, time carried on and eventually Thomas’s eyes opened as John gently brushed a thumb against his cheek. The two glanced at each other for a moment, then looked away, both unwilling to acknowledge what lay ahead. Hit with a sudden sense of desperation, John contemplated simply running away, forgetting the world and living every day by Thomas’s side, never forced to go without the man’s warmth, without his love. But they both had families, careers, lives that couldn’t manage to find a place for the other within them. Like a completed puzzle with something left over, something all too important that would have to be discarded. John closed his eyes, thinking that perhaps if he fell asleep again time would simply cease to pass.   
  
     Yet the sun continued to rise, filling the room with its golden light that John couldn’t help but resent as Thomas gave a gentle nudge to his side. Neither of them could speak, but each time their eyes met thousands of things were communicated, thousands of things that neither could find the words to say.   
  
     “Come on, John.” It was quiet, his voice still hoarse with sleep as Thomas sat up, moving his hand to John’s lower back. John eventually joined him, sitting up in bed and gazing at the unwelcome emptiness of the room. Most of Thomas’s things had already been packed, removed to a carriage for the trip home. John’s heart stung at the finality of it all. With a quiet groan, Thomas stretched and slowly got out of bed, John’s back feeling uncomfortably cold without his hand upon it. John watched as Thomas got dressed, delicate fingers working over buttons, then tying his cravat neatly into place over his neck. When he was all but without his coat, Thomas glanced down at John who was still sheltering from the morning cold under his blankets. The Virginian gave him an odd expression, halfway between exasperation and affection, when he retrieved one of John’s shirts from his closet. He tossed it to him, and when John simply stared at him blankly, Thomas gave a huff and strode back over to him, helping him into it and fastening the buttons over his chest. “Dear John, what are you going to do without me to take care of you?” He asked quietly. John gave a sharp laugh as he watched Thomas.  
  
     “Abigail has always been quite good at that.” Thomas paused, then smiled at that, before returning to his closet and tossing John the rest of his clothes. Deciding that the forwards marching of time was inevitable, John sighed and dressed himself, aimlessly reaching for his cravat and raising an eyebrow when he came up emptyhanded. Thomas then stepped closer to him before swiftly putting the fabric around his neck, tying it deftly and tucking it into his waistcoat. His hands still clinging to it, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. It was over too soon and John was hit with a wave of pain, frustration and ultimately, sadness, when he realized it would more than likely be their last. Taking one last glance around the room, now devoid of his possessions, Thomas shrugged his coat on over his shoulders as John reluctantly did the same, and silently opened the door before the pair stepped out into the blinding sunlight.  
  
     John followed him numbly down the stairs, unsure what to do with all of the anger rising within him. He wasn’t even sure what he was angry about, but he squared his jaw, confident that if he tried to speak he’d simply start to cry. Thomas stood out in front of the carriage that had been awaiting him, white horses pawing aimlessly at the ground, and shielded his eyes as he stared up at the sun. John stood behind him, unsure of what to say or do, unsure of what he could say or do with the carriage driver staring down at him. Thomas then turned around with a slight flair of his coat, fixing John with those same sincere eyes that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live without.  
  
     “Well, Mr. Adams?”  
  
     “Well, Mr. Jefferson.” Silence hung between the two impenetrably, neither one having the strength of will to break it. John scuffed at the cobblestones with his shoe as Thomas glanced around the street. John glanced up at a nearby lamp the moment it flicked off, heralding the end of the night and the beginning of days to come.   
  
     “I’d like to thank you for your company, sir,” Thomas said quietly, the forced control of his voice almost audible.  
  
     “Thank you for having it, Thomas.” After another long moment of silence until the two finally met eyes, Thomas no longer able to withhold a bittersweet smile. At the sight of it, his beautiful, brilliant love who always shone like the morning sun, and his unmatchable smile, John felt all the anger within him dissipate. Thomas squared his shoulders, tugging on the lapels of his coat and taking a shaky breath. He was almost about to turn and leave into his carriage when John’s hand shot out in a desperate gesture.  
  
     “Wait-” Thomas looked at him with wide, thankful eyes, not wanting to leave just yet. John took a brief moment to collect his thoughts, his chest rising and falling shakily. “Thomas.” Thomas gave him a slow, patient nod. John finally brought his eyes up to meet his, resting his hand on his bicep in all too innocuous a gesture. “Promise,” It came out a pained croak that made John wince. “Promise you won’t forget me, Thomas.” A squeeze to Thomas’s bicep assured him of his honest meaning; _promise you won’t forget about us._ Thomas’s eyebrows rose and for a second John thought the man was going to get emotional on him, but Thomas collected himself, smiling in a way that once again returned the warmth to John’s heart.  
  
     “I don’t think I could if I tried, John.”   
  
     Shaky smiles and quiet goodbyes later, John watched the carriage roll slowly down the street away from him, his hand still burning with the warmth of Thomas’s body. He’d stared off into the distance long after the carriage had disappeared from his view, before eventually turning around on shaky legs and heading back to his home, to his family, to his life. _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Was this fic inspired by the Sufjan Stevens song of a similar name? Perhaps.
> 
> Comments/kudos are highly appreciated, or just send asks about my fic or about 1776 in general to my blog, @oh-mr-adams on tumblr. Please.


End file.
